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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 




ISABEL CARLETON’S YEAR 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

raw YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 


MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 


THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 





* 














“ No,” Isabel replied, biting her lip to keep it from quiv- 
ering. “ If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. There’s always 
something that I just have to do with my money.” 
Page 82. 



ISABEL CARLETON’S 
YEAR 


MARGARET ASHMUN 

4 *» 


ILLUSTRATED 


fa fork 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1916 


All riehts rtservtd 


1 ~ 1 $ 



Copyright, 1916, 

By THE PERRY MASON CO. 

Copyright, 1916, 

By MARGARET ASHMUN 


Set up and electrotyped. Published, September, 1916 




SEP 21 1916 


©CI.A437762 

VU5 l ' 


5/, rr s rrr >*c 


To 

ISABEL ASHMUN ROBERTS 



Acknowledgments are made to the Youth’s Com- 
panion, for permission to use in this volume the ma- 
terial contained in Chapters I, V, VIII, XIV, and 
XVIII. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I A Ring and Some Other Things . . i 

II Half a Dozen Adventures .... 12 

III The Sleighing Party 32 

IV Running for Office 48 

V More About a Ring 69 

VI A Talk with Father 86 

VII The Frat Informal 97 

VIII Isabel the Hardhearted 113 

IX Among the Arbutus Blossoms . . . 124 

X The Trials of an Author . . . .138 

XI The Frenchman . 151 

XII Commencement 163 

XIII The Unreasonableness of Rodney . . 181 

XIV Grandfather’s Day 19 1 

XV Losings and Findings 202 

XVI A Trip to the Farm 216 

XVII Sanders’s 226 

XVIII The Real Lady 241 

XIX Tragedy 253 

XX Surprises, Painful and Pleasant . . 266 

XXI Last Days 284 


ISABEL CARLETON’S YEAR 


CHAPTER I 

A RING AND SOME OTHER THINGS 

I SABEL CARLETON rushed into the sitting- 
room without stopping to take off her hat and 
coat; her cheeks were pink with cold and excitement, 
and her soft blond hair was blown about her face. 

“Oh, mother,” she began, “you’ll never guess! 
I’ve found something that I just can’t live without.” 

Mrs. Carleton, a slender brown-eyed woman, was 
turning sheets to make them wear longer, and she 
was surrounded by shining white billows. She 
looked up from threading the machine, to smile at 
the girl’s eagerness. “ Well, what is it this time? ” 
she inquired quizzically. “ It seems to me that a 
good many things are absolutely necessary to your 
existence.” 

“ But this one is/’ said Isabel, coming over to the 
window, where her mother was making use of the 
last afternoon light. “ Oh, goodness, mother, my 
muddy shoe went right on the sheet. Dear me, what 
a nuisance I am ! ” 

“ Never mind,” said Mrs. Carleton, trying not to 
looked annoyed. “ Tell me what you have discov- 
ered.” 

“ It’s a ring,” replied Isabel breathlessly — “ a 


2 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


chrysoprase ring. I never knew what that stone 
was, before. It’s green, you know — the clearest, 
freshest green — ” 

Professor Carleton looked over the top of the 
book that he was reading. “ The tenth foundation 
stone of the New Jerusalem was of chrysoprase,” he 
remarked mildly. “ You remember that, don’t you, 
daughter? ” 

“ Y-e-s, father, I suppose so,” answered Isabel. 
“ But, mother, there were three stones — a large 
one in the middle, and a smaller one on each side, 
and they were set in silver, with cunning little leaves 
and buds around them.” 

“ Where did you see this wonderful ring? ” asked 
Mrs. Carlton, tucking a seam under the “ foot ” of 
the machine. 

“At Miss Titus’s; you know she has that new 
gift-shop on State Street. I was in there after 
school with Caroline Harper — she was getting a 
brass bowl for her mother — and I saw the ring, 
and I just said right out, ‘ Oh, that’s my ring! ’ It 
seemed as if it went with all the green bows and belts 
and things that I have, and my green silk afternoon- 
dress.” Isabel’s light hair and clear complexion 
made her partial, with something of girlish vanity, 
to “ her colour,” as she called it. 

Her mother was beginning to run up the seam, 
and she spoke loudly, above the hum of the machine. 
“ I dare say it costs a good deal, Isabel.” 

The girl’s face fell. “ It was only ten dollars — ■ 
all hand-made, you know, and so distinctive , mother. 


A Ring and Some Other Things 3 

I knew father couldn’t afford it, but I thought if I 
saved it out of my allowance — ” 

Mrs. Carleton smiled. Isabel’s allowance never 
lasted very long. “ It might take quite a while,” she 
said fastening the thread at the end of a seam, and 
reaching for another sheet. 

“ I arranged — I mean, I asked about that,” the 
girl replied hastily. “ Miss Titus said that if I paid 
two dollars, she’d keep it for me — not sell it to 
anyone else, at least — and then I could pay the rest 
when I’d saved it.” 

Mrs. Carleton frowned over the white linen. 
“ That sounds a good deal like buying things on the 
installment plan,” she said slowly. 

Professor Carleton looked up, turning his page 
absently. “What does the child want, Laura?” 
he asked. “ Is it that set of Swinburne that she was 
talking about yesterday? ” 

u Oh, father,” cried Isabel, “ it wasn’t Swinburne; 
it was William Morris. But I want this a whole lot 
worse.” 

“ It’s a ring,” explained Mrs. Carleton — “ a 
chrysoprase ring.” 

“ Well,” said father, returning to his Dante, “ I 
should think she might have a ring. Doubtless 
there are other young women who have them.” 

u I’m afraid you’ll have to buy it all yourself,” 
said Mrs. Carleton thoughtfully. “ I wish I could 
help you, but you know father has to go to a meeting 
of the Classical Association — he reads a paper 
there — and Celia has to have her front teeth 


4 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


straightened, and that costs so much — ” She 
sighed, and began to gather up her sewing, glancing 
at the clock. 

“ Oh, it’s Thursday, isn’t it? ” cried Isabel guilt- 
ily. “ And Olga is out, and I was going to get the 
dessert ready, and make the salad-dressing. May I 
try to buy the ring, mother? I have two dollars 
that I could pay for it now.” 

“ Yes, dear,” replied Mrs. Carleton. “ Get it if 
you can, of course. But don’t be too much disap- 
pointed if you have to give it up.” 

“ I won’t,” said Isabel, and she ran to hang up her 
wraps, humming as she went a bar from The Wear- 
ing of the Green . 

In a few minutes she came back, buttoning her 
blue gingham apron over her school dress, and con- 
tinuing to hum. 

“ Do you know, mother,” she said, fastening the 
last button, “ I was just thinking to-day that when 
Christmas and New Year’s are over, and we get into 
the middle of January, it seems as if everything is 
finished for the rest of the year — as if there’s noth- 
ing left to happen. And now here’s the ring for me 
to think about, and who knows what next? ” 

Mrs. Carleton had turned on the light, and was 
folding the sheets into a neat pile. “ Yes, no end 
of interesting things will happen before next Christ- 
mas,” she said. “ Why, Isabel, you may be in Eu- 
rope by that time, with your chrysoprase ring on 
your finger.” 


A Ring and Some Other Things 5 

Isabel laughed. “ You think of the most impos- 
sible thing you can, don’t you, mother? Going to 
Europe is the dream of my life — too lovely to come 
true. But perhaps I’ll have the ring, even if I am 
right here in old Jefferson, pegging away, a green 
freshman in the University.” 

“ And there’s your high-school graduation to 
come between,” said Mrs. Carleton, taking up the 
muddy sheet, to put it into the laundry-hamper. 
“ You mustn’t forget that.” 

“ I did, for a minute,” sighed Isabel. “ June 
seems so far away. We were going to have sliced 
oranges for dessert, weren’t we? I’ll get ’em ready 
in a jiffy.” 

She hurried to the kitchen, where she was soon 
peeling the oranges, and slicing them into a glass 
bowl. The scent of the fruit filled the room, dom- 
inating the savoury odour from the oven. 

Mrs. Carleton came out into the kitchen, and 
turned the roast, and put on the potatoes, which the 
careful Swedish maid had left peeled in a pan of cold 
water. 

“Where are Fanny and Celia?” asked Isabel, 
busy with her work. 

“ Up stairs,” answered her mother. “ Celia 
wanted Fanny to paste new paper on the walls of 
the doll’s-house dining-room. I suppose that’s what 
they’re at. I wish Fanny would come down. I 
want her to set the table.” 

“ Perhaps she will in a minute,” said Isabel ab- 


6 Isabel Carleton’ s Year 

sently. She was thinking of something else than 
dinner. 

The Carletons lived in a college town in the Mid- 
dle West — a delightful little city, very old, as Mid- 
dle Western cities go, and modelled after the New 
England villages from which most of the inhabitants 
or their parents had come. Two beautiful lakes 
crowded close upon the town, their sloping banks 
covered with groves of pine and maple. The ir- 
regular streets were lined with elms, and almost 
everybody had a lawn and a garden. 

At the time that our story opens, Jefferson was 
under its annual fall of heavy snow, now damp with 
January thaws. The winters are severe in the Mid- 
dle West, but the lives of young people are none the 
less happy for all that. 

The Carleton home was comfortable but not lux- 
urious. The Professor’s salary was not large, and 
the wants of growing girls were many. Isabel often 
felt impatient with the self-denial that the family had 
to practise. On this particular evening, she was 
feeling more than ever the irritation of limited 
means. 

“ Oh, mother,” she said, as she finished slicing the 
oranges, “ it does seem hard not to have the things 
you want so dreadfully. Doesn’t it? ” 

Mrs. Carleton stood a moment with the basting- 
spoon in her hand. Her face was placid and satis- 
fied. “ I’m always so happy when your father and 
you children are well and contented,” she said, 


A Ring and Some Other Things 7 

“ that I don’t worry about the things I don’t have. 
It seems to me that I have a very great deal. I 
don’t know that things to wear count for so very 
much, Isabel.” 

Isabel shook the sugar-scoop impatiently as she 
sprinkled the yellow heap of orange slices. “ Yes, 
they do, mother,” she cried — “they count for an 
enormous lot when you’re seventeen. Of course, I 
know they aren’t really anything when you compare 
them with fathers and mothers and good health and 
such things; but, dear me, you sort of take fathers 
and mothers and good health for granted, you know. 
You have those, anyway, no matter who you are.” 

Mrs. Carleton was mixing flour and water in a 
bowl, in order to thicken the gravy. “ I suppose 
so,” she laughed. “ Most of us have some of the 
things you mention.” 

“ And I can’t help it,” Isabel went on, “ I do love 
things to wear, Mummy, — swishy things, and lace, 
and cunning little sashes, and pretty pins, and rings, 
— the odd unusual sort of ring, that people look at 
and wonder about. Don’t you know? They keep 
glancing at it, and then they say, 4 Pardon me, but 
what an unusual ring you’re wearing. Did you get 
it abroad? ’ Don’t you think that’s fun, mother? ” 

“What’s fun?” cried Fanny, bursting into the 
kitchen, sniffing the savour of the roast. “ Good- 
ness, how hungry I am! What’s fun, and what 
about rings?” She came over to the table, and 
began to eat the shredded cocoanut that Isabel had 


8 


Isabel Carletons Year 


set out to sprinkle the oranges with. Fanny was 
thirteen, a lean, dark, lively girl with bright eyes and 
straight black hair. 

“ Don’t, Fanny,” said Isabel, pushing aside the 
brown fingers that were dipping into the box; “ there 
won’t be enough for the dessert, and it’s so much bet- 
ter with cocoanut.” 

“ But it’s so awfully good. Give me just another 
handful. I’m starving to death.” 

But Isabel had caught up the box and was holding 
it behind her. 

u Stingy! ” said Fanny crossly. 

“ Set the table, Fanny,” interrupted Mrs. Carle- 
ton, “ and you’ll forget that you’re on the verge of 
death from starvation. Hurry, dear. It’s almost 
half-past six, and we don’t want the evening to be 
too short, for you girls have your studying to do.” 

“Oh, dear!” groaned Fanny, taking an apron 
from behind the kitchen door, “ it’s always study 
and dig — almost every evening. I hate that Latin 
grammar. Why do I have to study Latin, anyway? 
Anna Paul doesn’t. Her mother says — ” 

“ I can’t listen now, child. Set the table quickly. 
Your father thinks it best for you to study Latin, 
and that’s reason enough, I’m sure.” 

Fanny went slowly into the dining-room to lay the 
table-cloth, and came back with the wicker tray for 
the dishes. Isabel was mixing a French salad- 
dressing, and Mrs. Carleton was putting the lettuce 
on the salad-plates. 


9 


A Ring and Some Other Things 

Celia came to the door and peeped into the 
kitchen, — a small slim figure in a short dress of 
black-and-white check, with red pipings. Her 
brown curls fell over her shoulders, and her blue 
eyes were sweet and intelligent 

Isabel glanced up. “ Come on in, ducky,” 
she called, beckoning. “ Here’s something for 
you.” 

The child ran to the table, her face brightening. 
u Open your mouth and shut your eyes, And I’ll 
give you something to make you wise,” Isabel 
chanted, while Celia shut her eyes so tightly that her 
forehead was strained into hard lines; and her 
mouth was wide open. Isabel dropped into it a bit 
of orange, well sugared and powdered with cocoa- 
nut. 

Celia’s eyes opened, and she gurgled with pleas- 
ure. “ Thank you, Fairy Princess,” she said, laugh- 
ing; then she dived under the table for Bobo, her 
big grey cat. 

“ Take this butter in and put it on the table, 
kiddy,” said Isabel. “ No, indeed, you mustn’t 
carry Bobo at the same time.” 

Little sister, holding the glass dish of butter-balls 
carefully in both hands, walked importantly into the 
dining-room. 

Presently she came back. u Call father, Celia,” 
said Mrs. Carleton, who, her face flushed with being 
near the stove, was pouring the gravy from the 
roasting-pan into the bowl. “ And see that the nap- 


io Isabel Garletoris Year 

kins are on the table, and the chairs in place.” This 
time Celia caught up Bobo; his white paws and his 
white-nosed face hung over her shoulder, and he 
purred loudly as he rode away. 

u Oh, dear, dishes to wash after dinner,” sighed 
Fanny, taking off her apron. “ I wish Olga didn’t 
have to go and see her sister every Thursday.” 

“ How would you like to stay in the kitchen here 
all day? ” asked Isabel coldly. “ I think if you had 
to, you’d be glad to go and see your sister.” 

“ It’d depend on which one it was,” Fanny re- 
plied, shaking the last crumbs out of the nearly 
empty cocoanut box. “ Even staying in the kitchen 
would be better than — ” 

She looked up and caught her sister’s eye, and she 
and Isabel both burst out laughing. “ Come on, 
Cross-patch,” said Isabel. “ When you’ve had 
some roast beef, you won’t be so savage.” 

“ What was it about the ring? ” asked Fanny, 
fastening a gold pin that had come loose at the back 
of Isabel’s collar. “ You didn’t tell me.” 

“ I’ll tell you when we’re washing the dishes,” 
answered Isabel mysteriously. “ It’s a gre-at se- 
cret.” 

“ Come on, girls,” called Professor Carleton, 
from the dining-room. “ The banquet waits.” 
They heard the scraping of the carving knife on the 
steel sharpener. 

“ It’s a beauty,” added Isabel, as they pushed open 


A King and Some Other Things n 

the swing door. “ When you see it, you’ll turn 
green with envy.” 

“ Well, I’ll wait till I see it, then,” said Fanny, 
sceptically, letting the door swing to, behind her. 


CHAPTER II 


HALF A DOZEN ADVENTURES 
HE next day, which was Friday, was a very busy 



JL one, and Isabel found no time to go to Miss 
Titus’s till after school was out in the afternoon, and 
even then she was delayed by a conference with her 
English teacher. She hurried down to the gift-shop, 
and stood outside for a moment, looking in at the 
window. A beautiful blue bowl gleamed on a brass 
tray, and a length of Chinese embroidery in faded 
red trailed over an old mahogany writing case. 
“ So many things that I want,” sighed the girl. 
“ But the ring — the ring! ” 

Miss Titus, a pleasant-faced young woman with 
waving auburn hair, smiled knowingly at Isabel from 
across the room, where she was arranging some 
gaily flowered cups and saucers. 

With a flutter of importance, Isabel laid down 
two silver dollars on the counter. “ The chryso- 
prase ring,” she said, as Miss Titus approached. 
Miss Titus went to a small glass case, and brought 
the ring, which, with other treasures, was lying in a 
tray of black velvet. Isabel hardly glanced at the 
lapis-lazuli and topaz ornaments, so eager she was 
to see again the ring that had been her choice. She 
took it up with a gentle hand, and turned it round 


12 


Half a Dozen Adventures 13 

admiringly, holding it so that the light shone through 
the stones. 

“ It looks like drops of rain on a green leaf, 
doesn’t it? ” she cried. “ It seems even lovelier to 
me to-day than it did yesterday.” 

“ Put it on,” said Miss Titus, with an appreciative 
smile. 

Isabel slipped the handsome silver circle upon her 
finger, where the beauty of the craftsman’s work 
showed doubly fine against the white skin. 

“ The band is a bit large,” said the woman, tak- 
ing Isabel’s hand in hers, and examining the ring. 
“ We might have it altered to fit a trifle better.” 

u It’s perfect as it is,” answered Isabel. “ I like 
to have it large, so that I can feel it slip around, and 
know it’s there.” 

“ Do you want to take it with you? ” asked Miss 
Titus, getting out a paste-board box with silver 
printing across the cover. 

“ Oh, no,” returned Isabel quickly. “ Oh, no. I 
shan’t take it till I’ve paid for it. I might lose it, 
or something. Mother wouldn’t like me to take it, 
I’m sure.” 

“ You may if you want to, you know.” 

But Isabel refused. “ No, I shouldn’t feel right 
about it,” she said. 

“ Then I’ll give you a receipt” 

Isabel tucked the bit of paper into her purse, with 
a happy glow. “ I’m going without everything till 
I get the ring,” she smiled. “ I’m sure it won’t be 
long, either.” 


r 4 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


She lingered, with the feeling of the privileged 
purchaser, and looked about at the medley of objects 
in the shop, — an old mirror in a mahogany frame, 
a quaint blue-and-white china tea-pot, odd wicker 
baskets, Japanese prints, a brass samovar, an East 
Indian table-cover, gay Austrian plates and flower- 
pots, richly figured chintz cushions, brass candle- 
sticks, a wonderfully embroidered Chinese mandarin 
coat, a clear corn-yellow pitcher: such an array of in- 
teresting things that Isabel could scarcely tear her- 
self away. The art instinct in her reached out for 
these attractive bits of colour and line. She sighed 
again in spite of the slip of paper in her purse, 
thinking how hard it is to deny ourselves the things 
we long for. “ But I’ll have the ring, anyway,” she 
murmured exultingly. 

She went out into the street, with a pleasant vision 
of the time when the green rain-drops should sparkle 
on her finger, to the admiration of Caroline and 
Molly and the other girls, when they should behold 
its “ distinctive ” splendour. 

As she walked slowly up State Street, she caught 
glimpses of herself in the store-windows, — a slen- 
der, bright-faced girl in a dark green coat, and a 
wide grey beaver hat with green velvet bows and 
silver buckle. The street was a queer mixture of 
the old and the new, with its irregular rows of build- 
ings, where sedate sixty-year-old shops stood hand in 
hand with young up-standing ones of fresh cream-* 
coloured brick. As Isabel looked back, she saw the 
last light of the sun tipping the gilt figure on the 


Half a Dozen Adventures 15 

white marble dome of the Capitol; and as she 
walked on, she could discern, nearly a mile before 
her, the more sober dome of University Hall, the 
oldest of the college buildings on the Hill. 

The streets were wet and sloppy, but up and down 
them passed closed cabs and clanging street-cars, 
farmers’ “ cutters,” delivery wagons, slowly crawl- 
ing loads of four-foot wood, and now and then a big 
motor-car, ploughing its way through the snow. A 
long “ bob-sleigh ” passed, too, full of school chil- 
dren out for a sleigh-ride, — shouting, blowing 
horns, and making the wild uproar that among young 
people indicates the happiest sort of good time. 
Once, at least, in the winter, each class expected to 
go for a sleigh ride, and revel in a supper after- 
ward, usually at some small town a few miles from 
the city. 

Isabel recognised one of the children in the sleigh, 
and waved merrily. Then she turned to look into 
the windows of a flower-shop, and met Molly Ram- 
say, a bright-eyed girl with red cheeks and black 
hair. She and Isabel stopped to talk, though they 
had been together in the high school all day. 

“ Buying out the stores? ” queried Isabel. 

Molly held up a parcel. “ Yes; a ball of crochet 
cotton and two yards of red ribbon,” she laughed. 
“ All I could find the money for. Whew ! how one’s 
allowance goes, doesn’t it?” 

“ Simply melts away,” answered Isabel feelingly. 
“ Look at that window. Wouldn’t you like to rush 
in and carry away an armful? ” A mass of pale 


16 Isabel Carleton’s Year 

pink carnations banked the front of the window, and 
shaded into the deeper rose of azaleas tied up with 
rosier gauze. 

“ I should say,” assented Molly absently. She 
did not care for flowers as much as Isabel did. 
“ But I’d rather carry away an armful of that.” 
She pointed to the heap of candy in the next window, 
where the lights had just been turned on. Luscious 
brown chocolates, and candied nuts and fruit were 
ranged about loaves of nougat, sprinkled through 
with raisins, citron, almonds, and cherries. “ Don’t 
you love the Pal? ” she added impulsively. 

“ Yes, I do,” Isabel replied rather wistfully, gaz- 
ing at the delicious things in the window of the Pal-, 
ace of Sweets — popularly called “the Pal;” “but 
mother doesn’t think it’s nice for young girls to go 
in there without an escort or a chaperone, and the 
candy’s so expensive just to buy by the box, — so I 
don’t get a chance to go in very often.” 

“ Neither do I,” confessed Molly, her eyes on a 
pile of glace-t d pineapple and orange-peel. 

“ When I get rich, I’ll send you a bushel of candy 
every day,” said Isabel. 

“ And when I marry a millionaire, I’ll send you 
a cart-load of roses and azaleas every morning,” 
responded Molly gaily. 

“ Hurry up and find him,” Isabel cried, and they 
parted, laughing. 

Isabel stood a minute after Molly had gone on. 
“ I’ll get mother a tiny bunch of marguerites,” she 
thought, feeling in her muff for her purse; and then 


1 7 


Half a Dozen Adventures 

she stopped. She had left nearly all her money at 
the gift-shop as a deposit on the ring. “ Oh, dear,” 
she sighed, “ no more posies or anything till I’ve paid 
for my jewels. I’ll have to be dreadfully selfish. 
No presents for anybody, — and that’s pretty hard.” 

Just then she saw Rodney Fox on the other side 
of the street. She knew him even in the dusk, by 
his way of carrying his shoulders, and by the light 
grey cap he was wearing. Usually the University 
freshmen were obliged to wear green caps, with red 
buttons, but this particular tyranny of the sopho- 
mores was relaxed in cold weather. Rodney- had 
been in the high school with Isabel, but had finished 
the course last June, and was now in the University. 
He raised his cap when he saw Isabel, and then 
motioned her to wait while he came across the street. 
Isabel stood at the crossing, jumping up and down, 
because her toes were getting cold with tramping 
through the slush, even in her heavy shoes and rub- 
bers. 

“ Awfully glad I met you,” said Rodney, coming 
up. He was slender but tall and well proportioned, 
with dark brown hair, fresh red cheeks, and hazel 
eyes that looked one squarely in the face. “ Just 
getting home from school?” 

“ Well, I stopped to do an errand or two,” said 
Isabel. “ How horribly early it gets dark, doesn’t 
it?” 

“ Yes; and it’s getting good and cold, too. Don’t 
you want to come into the Pal and have some hot 
chocolate? ” 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


“ Oh, I’d love to, Rodney. I was beginning to 
get hungry, — and it’s quite a while yet to din- 
ner.” 

“ Gee ! how hollow a fellow gets between lunch 
and dinner! ” laughed the boy. “ At least I do. I 
don’t suppose girls ever do anything so vulgar.” 

“ Don’t they? ” returned Isabel, tucking up some 
stray blond locks. “ You’ve known me long enough 
to be pretty sure that I’m always ready to eat.” 

Secretly, she felt rather excited at going into the 
“ Pal,” even with so good a chum as Rodney. This 
was the hour when it was full of University students, 
brilliant young persons in gay costumes, who seemed 
very much grown up and at their ease. Isabel 
couldn’t help feeling dazzled as they entered the big 
confectionery shop, with its rows of yellow-shaded 
lights, and mirrors where one kept seeing oneself 
over and over; its glittering cases of candy, shelves 
of glasses, and marble soda-fountain; its gay paper 
flowers and streamers and favours and college ban- 
ners, and its generally gorgeous and “ city-fled ” air. 
As they went down the long aisles to the section 
where the tables were arranged, she peeped into the 
mirrors to see if her hat were on straight, and her 
hair in good trim. 

“ Over here in the corner,” said Rodney. They 
sat down at a little square table, near the fire-place 
where a coal-fire burned redly. A maid in a white 
apron took the written order that Rodney scrawled 
on one of the blanks furnished for that purpose. 
Isabel looked around as she drew off her gloves. 


Half a Dozen Adventures 19 

“ How warm and gay it seems, after the dusk and 
snow ! ” she exclaimed happily. 

“It’s some place, isn’t it?” answered Rodney. 
“ Great joint for the studes.” 

The room seemed very full, and it rippled with 
the sound of chatting and laughter. There were 
college girls in stylish suits, and furs thrown back 
from fresh merry faces and white throats. Some 
of the girls wore bunches of roses or violets at the 
front of their jackets; and one tall languid creature 
in a dark purple suit and lynx furs was wearing two 
lovely jewel-like purple orchids, — flowers that one 
did not often see in Jefferson. 

“Isn’t she a picture?” murmured Isabel breath- 
lessly. 

Rodney turned his head and glanced at the self- 
conscious beauty. “ Well enough,” he answered, 
“ but there are others.” He turned back and smiled 
at Isabel across the table. u I’m better pleased with 
what I see from here,” he added. 

“Oh, Rod, aren’t you funny! ” said the girl, in- 
credulously; but she felt a glow in her heart just the 
same. She continued to let her eyes wander about 
the room, while the maid placed the chocolate and 
wafers on the table. After she had noted the cos- 
tumes of the young women, Isabel gave tardy heed 
to the young men, very square-shouldered fellows, 
in well-fitting, stiffly-creased suits, and correct neck- 
ties. It seemed as if they were all handsome and 
well-groomed, though the lights may have been re- 
sponsible for the attractiveness of some of them. 


20 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


“ What good times you college people have,” said 
Isabel, with a half-sigh, stirring the hot chocolate, 
with its whipped cream and melted marshmallow on 
top. 

“ Yes, we do have the time of our lives,” as- 
sented Rodney. “ Great Caesar, this is hot! We 
do have mighty gay times, — but you haven’t any 
idea how we dig and slave. I never dreamed what 
work was like, when I was in the high school. Why, 
I’ve studied till twelve o’clock every night this 
week. Don’t you see how pale and haggard I’m 
looking? I think I’m going into a decline.” His 
glowing cheeks and clear flashing eyes were scarcely 
those of a sick man. 

“You certainly look delicate!” laughed Isabel. 
“ What else have you been doing — besides burning 
the midnight electricity, and cramming your brain 
with knowledge ? ” 

“ Nothing much since I saw you last. Ski-ing a 
little, but the snow’s too soft now. No dances or 
pink teas this week. It’s too bad, Isabel,” he said 
regretfully, “ that your mother doesn’t let you come 
to our fraternity parties. I’m going to ask her 
again pretty soon. Maybe she’ll change her mind.” 

“ Oh, I do hope she will let me, just once. But 
I’m afraid I’d be frightened stiff among all those 
college people. I’m sure I shouldn’t be able to 
dance, or to utter a word.” 

“ Oh, bosh! You’d have ’em all skinned a mile, 
— beg pardon, Mademoiselle! I mean you’d out- 
shine the entire assembly.” 


21 


Half a Dozen Adventures 

“ Not I. I’d be petrified.” 

“ Well, we’ll try it and see. If you petrify, we’ll 
set you up among the palms for a statue, — and that 
wouldn’t be so bad, either.” 

u There’s no use in talking about it,” said Isabel 
wistfully, “ for mother doesn’t think I ought to go 
until I’m out of the high school.” 

“ I believe she will let you go once or twice,” said 
Rodney, “ and I’m going to ask her before long. 
By the way, that’s one of our men over there, — just 
getting up. I spoke to him when we came in. 
Guess I’ve pointed him out to you before. That’s 
Fred Delafield, — best dancer in our frat. Good 
student, too — fine fellow. Entered as a Junior 
this year. I want you to meet him sometime.” 

“ I’d like to. He looks nice. Who is the girl 
with him? ” 

“Evelyn Taylor. She’s a splendid girl — you’d 
like her, too. Oh, I wish you were in college, Isa- 
bel ! ” 

“ Well, I shall be in college pretty soon,” an- 
swered Isabel ruefully, crumbling a wafer. “ And 
this has been a good year so far. I’ve enjoyed it. 
You know I’ve been having a very good time. And 
it’s nice to have college to look forward to. I think 
it’s beautiful to be expecting something delightful — 
trips to Europe and diamond tiaras, and all sorts of 
things. I believe that expecting happiness is the 
best part of life.” She wanted to tell him about the 
ring but she thought he might consider her vain and 
silly. 


22 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


“ I guess you’re right, lady,” said Rodney. 

When they had finished their chocolate, and Rod- 
ney had received the check, for which he was to pay 
at the desk, they rose, somewhat reluctantly, and 
went out again, between the rows of lights and mir- 
rors. The arc lights outside were flaring and sput- 
tering in the cold blue twilight, and all the sunset 
colouring had faded from the sky. 

“ Ugh,” shivered Isabel, fastening her squirrel 
neck-piece, “ it certainly is getting colder.” 

“ Just right for sleigh-rides,” answered Rodney? 
“ With a hot chicken-supper afterward.” 

They walked along, chatting, to the Carleton 
home, where they parted with a gay “ Good night ! ” 
Isabel ran up the steps and into the warm dimness 
of the hall. It seemed good to be at home, even 
after the pleasantness of “ the Pal.” Leaving her 
wraps in the hall-closet, she hurried upstairs. There 
was a light in her mother’s room, opposite her own. 

“Is that you, Isabel?” called Mrs. Carleton. 
“I’m dressing to go out for dinner. You know your 
father and I are invited to the Mitchells’. Won’t 
you come in and hook up my dress for me? ” 

“ Surely, mother.” Isabel went into her mother’s 
pretty grey and pink room, where Mrs. Carleton was 
standing before the looking glass, and Celia was 
curled up on the window-seat with an illustrated 
book from the school library. 

“ I’ll never have another dress that fastens in the 
back,” said Mrs. Carleton. “ It’s too much of a 


nuisance. 


23 


Half a Dozen Adventures 

“ No, it isn’t, mother,” responded Isabel, begin- 
ning to hook up the cream-coloured voile gown; “ we 
all just love to do it for you, and it isn’t a bit of a 
nuisance. You’re a duck in this dress, too, — ” she 
stopped long enough to give her mother a kiss under 
her ear. 

u It’s getting rather passee ,” said Mrs. Carleton 
absently. “ You’ll look after Celia, won’t you, 
dear? Don’t let her eat too much dessert, and put 
her to bed early — ” She paused, to pin her collar 
with an old-fashioned cameo brooch. 

“You’ll be good, won’t you, honey?” said the 
big sister, going over to sit down by Celia, who snug- 
gled up against her. 

“ Yes, of course I will,” answered the child. “ I 
won’t be any more trouble than a mouse. Oh, read 
to me out of this book, Isabel.” 

But just then the doorbell downstairs rang with a 
quick whir that told of an impatient hand, and pres- 
ently a high girlish voice floated through the hall. 
“It’s Caroline,” called Fanny from below. “She 
wants to see you, Isabel.” 

“ Oh, come up, Caro,” answered Isabel, hanging 
over the banister. “ Mother’s dressing, and I’m up 
here.” 

Caroline bounded up the stairs, and the two girls 
went into Isabel’s room; a simple and dainty room it 
was, with its hand-woven rag rugs, and its cretonne 
hangings and white furniture. 

“ Oh, Isabel,” cried Caroline Harper, with a 
jump of excitement, “ I had to come over and tell 


24 


Isabel Carleton's Year 


you. What do you think?” Caroline was always 
full of enthusiasms. Though very plump and 
rather plain, with sand-coloured hair, a sharp chin, 
and irregular teeth, she always had an expression 
of keenness and animation. 

“ I don’t think at all,” laughed Isabel, “ because 
I don’t know what there is to think about. Do 
hurry and tell me, Caro-kins.” 

“You know Ellery came home yesterday — ” 
Ellery was Caroline’s half-brother, ten years older 
— “ and he’s made some money somehow or other 
— I never understand just how those things are 
done — up in British Columbia. And he told me 
when I got home a little while ago, that because he’d 
had this good luck, and because he couldn’t get home 
for Christmas, he wanted to give me a celebration 
now.” She stopped, out of breath, and beaming at 
her companion. 

“ Oh, how splendid! ” cried Isabel. “ And what 
is it going to be, Caroline? ” 

“ Why, we talked it over, and decided on a sleigh 
ride to Middleton, with supper afterward — and 
we can dance for a while, till it’s time to come 
home.” 

Isabel sat down on the edge of the bed, and 
clasped her hands. “ Oh, Caro, how lovely! ” she 
exclaimed. “ We’ve said so many times lately that 
we ought to have a sleigh ride, and now this is so 
perfect! ” 

“ Isn’t it?” said Caroline, taking dance steps be- 
tween the rugs. “ There’ll be about ten of us — 


Half a Dozen Adventures 25 

you, and Mollie Ramsay, and Rodney Fox, and Eric 
Thomas, and one or two others. And Fraulein 
Ewald will chaperon us — I called her up. Isn’t 
El a dear? ” 

“ Isn’t he going with us? ” asked Isabel. 

“ No, he thinks it wouldn’t be good for his rheu- 
matism that he got out there in that wild and woolly 
country. The doctor says he’s got to be careful.” 

Just then Mrs. Carleton came to the door in her 
long coat, and with a lace scarf over her head. She 
smiled happily when she heard the plan, which both 
girls were telling her at once. “ That’ll be no end 
jolly,” she said, fastening the loops on her coat. 
“Won’t you stay to dinner, Caroline? The girls 
are going to be here alone.” 

“ No, thank you; I must run over and see Molly. 
Well, to-morrow night, then, Isabel. I’ll call you 
up and tell you when we are to meet. Mother says 
to take plenty of wraps.” 

Isabel followed her to the head of the stairs. 
“ Thank you for inviting me,” she said. 

“ As if I wouldn’t! ” answered Caroline. “ How 
nice you look in that dress,” she added, half-envi- 
ously. The blue serge school dress, with white col- 
lar and cuffs, set off Isabel’s fine features, smooth 
skin, and wavy gold hair. Caroline could never 
quite forgive her friend for her slender prettiness. 

Isabel flushed. “ It’s the same old dress,” she 
smiled. “Well, I’ll expect you to call me up when 
things are all settled.” 

“Yes; good night,” said Caroline, and she was 


26 


Isabel Garleton’s Year 


gone, with a flutter of skirts, and a backward trill 
from the hall door. 

After their father and mother had gone, Isabel 
and Celia went down stairs. “ Dinner’s late,” said 
Celia, “ ’cause the groceries didn’t come, and Olga’s 
kind o’ cross.” 

“ Then we’ll have to be very good and not make 
her any crosser,” said Isabel. “ You sit here at the 
table and look at your book, while I study my les- 
sons a little for Monday.” She turned on the light 
in the sitting-room, above the round table, with its 
neat piles of books and magazines. It was a pleas- 
ant “ homey ” room, with some old family-furniture, 
a portrait of Great-Grandfather Carleton, plenty of 
book-cases, a flourishing sword-fern, and a canary in 
a brass cage at the window. 

For a few minutes, the two girls were very quiet 
with their books. Certain appetizing odours came 
from the kitchen, and the subdued rattle of Olga’s 
kettles and pans. 

“ Sister,” said Celia, throwing her book aside, 
“ I want my little red chairs.” 

“ What little red chairs?” asked Isabel, running 
through the names of Romantic poets. u I sup- 
pose I ought to learn a date for each of them,” she 
sighed. “ What chairs, kitten?” 

“ My doll-chairs that father painted for me. 
They looked all scrubby, you know, and father got 
some paint and painted ’em all nice and shiny.” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Isabel, still with her mind on her 


Half a Dozen Adventures 27 

book; “ I heard him speak about them. Where are 
they? ” 

“ Down in the basement, in father’s work-room. 
He left ’em down there to dry.” 

“ Fanny’ll go with you, I think. I want to get my 
lesson for Monday. Be a nice little lady, and don’t 
tease.” 

Celia ran to the study, where Fanny was trimming 
kodak pictures, and presently both the younger girls 
went through the sitting-room on their way to the 
basement. There was sound of chattering, and then 
quiet, emphasised by the humming of the telephone 
wires in the wind. 

All at once, Isabel, deep in the biography of Rob- 
ert Southey, heard a scream from the basement, and 
then shriek after shriek in Celia’s shrill voice. 
Dropping her book, Isabel ran in terror to the back 
hall, and down the basement stairs. Wails from 
Fanny were mingled with Celia’s anguished outcry. 

Halfway down the stairs Isabel paused weakly. 
In the dim light of the basement, she could see Celia 
jumping up and down frantically, while from the top 
of her head, red rivers of blood poured down upon 
her shoulders and dripped heavily to the floor. She 
was standing, apparently, in a pool of gore. Isa- 
bel’s heart seemed to stop beating. “ Oh, she’s 
killed,” she whispered, clinging to the stair-rail. 

Fanny was making dabs at Celia’s head with her 
handkerchief, and Bobo, whom Celia had brought 
down with her, was standing stiff-legged and wild- 
eyed, his tail nearly as big as his body. 


28 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


Olga, following Isabel, remained petrified at the 
head of the stair. “Is the little one dead?” she 
asked in a stifled voice. 

“What is it?” gasped Isabel, clinging to the 
stair-rail and trembling all over. 

“Paint!” snapped Fanny, lifting the sopping 
handkerchief and letting it fall on the floor. “ Red 
paint. She pulled it off the shelf.” 

Celia began to scream more loudly than ever, with 
her eyes shut and her arms held straight out, her 
fingers spread wide apart. Isabel laughed hysteri- 
cally, so great was her relief that the child was not 
mortally injured. 

“ You needn’t laugh,” said Fanny, her voice 
shaking. 

“ Ow, Isabel’s laughing at me,” howled Celia, 
flapping her crimson hands. “ Isabel’s making fun 
of me.” 

“ No, I’m not, darling,” Isabel protested, coming 
to the foot of the stairs. “ But I thought you were 
all bluggy — and I’m so glad you aren’t. What in 
the world shall we do? ” 

Olga came unsteadily down the stairs, with the 
pepper-box in her hand. Her round Scandinavian 
face was full of distress. “ My! my! ain’t it yoost 
awful? ” she cried. “ Yoost look at her hairs, an’ 
her pretty dress that your mama made for her. It’s 
so awful bad, I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. 
Wait. I get a cloth, and wipe her head.” 

Isabel gingerly unbuttoned the smeared dress, and 
unpinned the lace collar, now dabbled with paint. 


29 


Half a Dozen Adventures 

Celia’s screams subsided into a whimper. Olga 
brought a cloth, and Isabel wiped the red rivers 
from the child’s curls and her small scared face. 
Fanny began to clean and comfort the gory Bobo. 

“ Oh, dear, something always happens when 
mother goes away,” groaned Isabel. “ How did 
you do it, Celia ? ” 

“ It was on the shelf,” said the child, catching 
her breath between the words. u And I thought 
I’d like to see how it looked — my chairs were so 
pretty — an’ Fanny was looking at father’s tools — 
an’ I reached up — an’ it just came tumbling all over 
me.” Her voice broke into a quaver; and then she 
asked in sudden terror, “ Oh, Isabel, will it ever 
come off ? ” 

“ Not for weeks,” broke in Fanny, whose mis- 
chievous spirit was beginning to return. “ Weeks 
and weeks,” she went on. “ You’ll look like Bosco 
the Wild Girl, and folks’ll pay ten cents to come and 
see you.” 

Celia began to jump up and down and scream 
again. “ Oh, I can’t go to school,” she blubbered, 
“ or to Milly Mitchell’s party — oh, I can’t wear 
my pink dress — and father won’t like me with my 
hair all sticky! ” 

“ There, there, dear,” consoled Isabel, patting the 
child’s shoulder in the knitted underwaist, “ it’s all 
right. Fanny was only joking. Mother’ll know a 
way — don’t you worry. Doesn’t mother know al- 
most everything? ” 

“ Y-e-e-s,” sobbed Celia, reaching for Isabel’s 


30 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


hand, “ and I wish she was here now. Can’t you 
telephone for her, Izzy?” 

“ No, we don’t want to spoil her good time. 
We’ll get you cleaned up a little, and then we’ll have 
dinner, and we’ll all feel better. Don’t you worry, 
Chicken-Little.” 

Then the procession started up the basement 
stairs — Olga still holding the pepper-box in one 
hand, and Celia’s drabbled dress in the other, Isabel 
leading the sniffling child in petticoat and under- 
waist, Fanny with Bobo wrapped in an old burlap 
bag. 

“ Turkentine or ker’sene will take it out, I do be- 
lieve,” said Olga miserably. “ My, my ! What’ll 
your poor mamma say when she comes home?” 

In the bathroom, Celia had her face and hands 
rubbed quickly with kerosene and then washed with 
soap and hot water. She bore the operation 
bravely, though her cheeks were almost blistered 
with their scrubbing. 

“ There’s no use in fussing with her hair till after 
dinner,” said Isabel, drawing a long breath of weari- 
ness. “ We’re all half-starved.” So Celia came to 
the table in her blue wrapper, and with her head tied 
up in a turban, so that she looked like a very 
wretched and parboiled little Hindoo. They sat 
down to dinner long after seven o’clock, and the po- 
tatoes were burned and the meat cold. Olga never 
ceased her muttered lamentations of “ My, my!” 
“ Ain’t it yoost awful? ” and “ What will your poor 
mamma say? ” 


Half a Dozen Adventures 31 

“ What a time,” groaned Isabel, who was too 
tired to eat. “ I believe I said yesterday that noth- 
ing could happen — but I hope we aren’t in for any- 
thing worse than this ! ” 

“ Not if it happens to me,” piped Celia, stopping 
in a draught of milk, to peer round-eyed over the 
top of her glass. “ Haven’t I had what you call an 
‘ exciting adventure,’ Isabel? ” 

“ I should say you had,” sighed Isabel, nibbling 
at a very-much-too-brown biscuit, “ and I think it 
will last us all for a while.” 


CHAPTER III 


THE SLEIGHING PARTY 

“T>UT on plenty of togs, Isabel,” said Rodney 

JL Fox, as the girl came into the sitting-room, 
where he was talking with Mrs. Carleton and Celia. 
“You don’t want to be brought back frozen to 
death.” 

“ Well, no,” answered Isabel. “ I can’t say that 
I do. It might interfere somewhat with the fes- 
tivity of the occasion.” 

“ I wonder if I’ll ever be able to use such big 
words,” sighed Celia, looking admiringly at her 
older sister, whom she adored. 

“ Oh, much longer ones,” laughed Rodney, “ like 
ornithorhyncus and psychopathology f and ethical 
antinomianism. Don’t you think those are good 
words? ” 

“ Lovely,” said Celia enviously. “ You have to 
know an awful lot to be in the University, don’t you, 
Rodney?” 

“ Yes, you have to be a compendium of knowl- 
edge,” answered Rodney, his brown eyes twinkling; 
“ only the professors are usually jealous of you, and 
won’t let you tell all you know.” 

“ I’m sure father wouldn’t be jealous,” said Celia 
32 


The Sleighing Party 33 

seriously. She thought Rodney a rather wonderful 
person. 

“ No, I don’t think your father would be jealous 
of me ! ” said Rodney, laughing again, and Mrs. 
Carleton smiled over her embroidery. 

“ It’s a perfectly scrumptious evening,” broke in 
Isabel. “Aren’t you glad you’re going, Rod?” 

“ Well, I should say yes,” responded Rodney 
heartily. “ It was pretty good of Caroline to ask 
me to go with our old crowd.” 

Isabel went into the hall to put on her wraps. 
Rodney was wearing a heavy sweater under his coat, 
and his overcoat and mufflers lay on a chair. He 
was following the good advice that he had given 
Isabel. 

Mrs. Carleton talked to Rodney about his mother, 
and then gave him an account of Celia’s exciting ad- 
venture with the paint. The boy was much amused, 
and Celia had sufficiently recovered to consider her- 
self something of a heroine. 

“ So you thought you’d take a swim in the red 
paint, did you?” Rodney teased. “Pretty hard 
going, wasn’t it — eh? Better come up to the Gym 
and we’ll let you use the tank when you feel like 
taking a plunge.” 

Celia flushed and laughed, smoothing back the 
curls straggling about her face. She could always 
stand teasing from Rodney. 

“ How does college go, Rod? ” called Isabel from 
the hall, as she struggled with her overshoes. 

“ Fine ! ” answered the boy. “ I forgot to tell 


34 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


you yesterday that I’m going to compete in the in- 
door track meet next month — the Freshman high 
jump — some stunt, too, believe me. Elsom says I 
may fail now, but he wants me to keep in training 
for the Sophomore meet next year.” 

“ Oh, Rod, I hope you’ll get a first,” cried Isabel, 
coming to the door with a red silk handkerchief 
knotted about her neck, and her tassel cap pulled 
down over her ears. “ You must, for the honour of 
old Jefferson High.” 

“ I’m not worrying about honours,” replied Rod- 
ney, smiling over at Mrs. Carleton. “We all ex- 
pect you to win the honours for Jefferson High, when 
you get into the University. You’ll reap all the 
glories in sight, and come out with a Phi Bet’, and 
two or three scholarships.” 

“ Not me,” answered Isabel, regardless of gram- 
mar. But Rodney’s faith in her was very pleasant, 
nevertheless. “ I’ll come tagging along behind 
everybody else, I expect. Well, here goes for the 
‘ togs.’ ” 

Rodney jumped up and held her sweater for her, 
and then her last winter’s coat of Scotch wool. “ I 
think we’d better hurry up,” he said, beginning to 
put on his mufflers. “ Caroline said we were not to 
be a minute later than half-past five.” They were 
all to meet at Caroline’s house, where they were to 
pile into the big “ bob ” that had been hired for the 
occasion. 

“ I think I’m ready,” said Isabel, drawing on a 
pair of mittens over her gloves. 


The Sleighing Party 35 

Just then Olga came to the door to say that Mrs. 
Carleton was wanted at the telephone. “ Good- 
bye, dear,” said the careful mother, kissing Isabel. 
“ Be a good girl.” 

“ You might think I was in the habit of stealing 
the spoons,” laughed Isabel, as her mother disap- 
peared. “ Fanny,” she called up the stairway, 
“won’t you get me a shawl from mother’s closet? 
I might need it coming home.” 

Fanny came running down stairs with a shawl, 
which Rodney tucked under his arm. “ Good 
night, infants,” called Isabel, and she and Rodney 
went out into the dusk, chattering and bantering each 
other, in their usual high spirits. 

The night was clear and fresh. Although there 
had been a “January thaw,” the weather was rap- 
idly becoming colder. Low in the sky hung a new 
moon, thin and yellow, with a slight haze about it. 
Trees and houses showed velvet-black against the 
dark blue of the horizon. 

The sleigh was standing at the gate, when Isabel 
and Rodney arrived at the Harper house. Muf- 
fled forms moved about in the twilight, which was 
broken now and then by the quick glow from a 
pocket flash-light. 

The sleigh was roomy and comfortable, with 
straw in the bottom, covered with blankets. Then 
there were fur robes, and more blankets and steamer 
rugs. Merry voices exchanged jokes and back- 
handed compliments, while the boys and girls settled 
themselves in the conveyance. 


36 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


“ You look like a feather-bed tied in the middle, 
not very tight,” said Eric Thomas, jocosely to Caro- 
line, who, wrapped like a mummy, balanced on the 
edge of the sleigh. 

Caroline, who was sensitive about being plump, 
retorted, “ Well, I don’t see why you need to twit 
me of it.” 

Her voice was so hurt that Eric was covered with 
confusion, for he had not meant anything but a weak 
attempt at humour. “ Oh, come, Caroline,” he 
apologised lamely, “ you know I hadn’t any inten- 
tion of twitting you; I was only joking.” 

Caroline’s answer was drowned in the general 
gabble. 

“ Please let me have a square inch of that robe.” 

“ Oh, you stepped on my foot! ” 

“ I had to step somewhere — ” 

“Yes, do take this scarf; I have another — ” 

“ Mother wanted me to bring a hot soap-stone, 
but I said — ” 

“ Isn’t it lovely of Caroline to ask us? ” 

“ Yes, and so splendid of Ellery! ” 

“We’re going to have a chicken-supper.” 

“ M-m ! I hope I get the wish-bone.” 

And so on, with the cheerful nothings that young 
people chatter when they are out for a good time. 
The driver cracked his whip, the bells began to 
jingle, and the party was off, with a long cheer, and 
the blowing of horns and whistles. In a short time, 
they had left the town behind, and were scudding 
through the country roads, where trees and bushes 


The Sleighing Party 37 

overhung them, and sometimes scraped their heads, 
causing much ducking and squealing on the part of 
the girls. Here and there a light shone in a farm- 
house, and a dog rushed out barking wildly at the 
intruders. 

And all the time, the chatter went on: 

“ The moon looks like a slice of muskmelon.” 

“ Wish it were — ” 

“ Then you’d be crying for the moon.” 

“ Say, Rod, do you remember the muskmelons 
we swiped when we were out camping last sum- 
mer? ” 

“ S-sh ! Don’t let the girls know — they’d be 
shocked.” 

“ Oh, now we know what you’re up to, when 
you’re off by yourselves.” 

“ Goodness ! you’re splitting my ear-drums with 
that horn.” 

“ Well, I’m so hungry, I have to get my mind off 
my sufferings.” 

The six miles to Middleton were quite enough, 
yet none too much for the lively party. 

Inside the country hotel, they stamped about, wak- 
ing tingling feet that had “ gone to sleep,” unwrap- 
ping themselves and each other from their coverings, 
and blinking in the light of the kerosene lamps. 
The white-haired hostess and her black-bearded son 
scuttled about, putting wood into the tall iron stoves, 
taking overcoats and furs, and bringing in extra 
chairs, so that those who were very cold might sit a 
moment and warm their toes. 


38 Isabel Carletons Year 

The party were astonished and perhaps a trifle 
vexed to find that a group of University students 
were there before them. “ Don’t worry,” consoled 
the hostess; “there’ll be enough for all of you to 
eat.” 

Isabel, her eyes still unused to the light, thought 
she saw some one that she knew among the college 
people, but she was not sure. She went into the bed- 
room opening from the sitting-room, to take off her 
wraps. Here she was startled to see that the shawl 
which Fanny had brought her, and which, in her 
haste, she had not looked at, was one that her mother 
valued above everything else — a beautiful old Ro- 
man-striped shawl, that had been a part of Grand- 
ma Carleton’s wedding-outfit. 

“ Goodness ! ” exclaimed Isabel to Molly Ram- 
say, “ I wouldn’t have brought this shawl for any- 
thing, if I had known. I feel almost as if I ought 
to stand and hold it.” 

“ It’s awfully pretty, isn’t it? ” said Molly, glanc- 
ing at it, and then turning to fluff her hair before the 
glass. “ I don’t believe anything will happen to it, 
though. Don’t let it fuss you, anyway.” 

“Supper’s ready!” the word went round, and 
everybody trooped off to the dining room. A long 
table stretched down the middle of the room. 
There were lace curtains at the windows, and on the 
wall were ugly pictures of dead ducks hanging by 
their feet, and of huge red watermelons surrounded 
by hectic peaches, bright purple grapes, and stick- 
like bananas. 


The Sleighing Party 39 

“Did you ever see such frights?” whispered 
Caroline to Isabel as they went in. 

The college group were already at the table when 
the high-school party filed in. Caroline, flushing 
with pleasure, had the seat at the end of the table, 
because it was “ her celebration.” Fraulein Ewald 
was beside her, and then Eric Thomas; the others 
ranged along the sides of the table. Isabel found 
herself sitting down at the place where the college 
and the high school groups came together. At her 
right was Rodney Fox, and at her left the dark 
young man that she had seen in the Palace of Sweets 
the day before. 

“ Ha, Fred! ” exulted Rodney, “ glad to see you 
here.” 

“Well, this is great!” answered Delafield, his 
eyes on Isabel, who presently was going through an 
introduction to the big fellow, and to Evelyn Tay- 
lor, who sat on the other side of him. 

“ Oh, I’ve seen you a good many times, on the 
Hill and elsewhere,” said Miss Taylor, “ and I al- 
most feel as if I know you. You’re Professor 
Carleton’s daughter, aren’t you?” Evelyn’s kindly 
blue eyes and delicate face seemed very familiar to 
Isabel, too. In a few minutes, all four were talking 
like long-lost friends. 

Even in the midst of the conversation, Isabel 
noted that there were bunches of pink and red gera- 
niums in painted vases on the table, and that the 
china was thick and heavy, with occasional nicks. 
But the food was all that any hungry young person 


40 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


could ask for. There were platters of fried chicken, 
and bowls of gravy; piles of hot, puffy raised biscuit; 
tureens of mashed potato; other tureens of yellow 
squash, and golden rings of carrot; pickles and jelly; 
and two huge layer cakes quivering with their fill- 
ings of whipped cream. 

The hostess and her daughter kept passing the 
food, and urging modest eaters, filling cups and 
glasses, and bringing in relays of chicken and gravy 
from the kitchen. 

Everybody, of course, was laughing and talking 
at once. Isabel was so absorbed in Fred Delafield’s 
account of his last summer’s trip to the Canadian 
Rockies, that she forgot about Caroline and Molly 
and Eric and the rest, who were keeping up among 
themselves a fire of good-natured repartee. 

“ And a whopping big brown bear was sitting in 
the middle of the trail — ” Delafield was saying. 
Isabel looked up and caught Caroline Harper’s eye 
fixed on her with a queer expression. She won- 
dered vaguely what it meant. Caroline was not eat- 
ing, and her face was red and strained. She did 
not look as if she were enjoying herself, and Isabel 
was for a moment very much perplexed and dis- 
turbed. 

But Delafield had paused, expecting a reply. 

“ Oh-h,” said Isabel, suddenly coming back to the 
story, “ and didn’t you have your gun with you? ” 

“ That was just it — I’d left my ‘ rusty trifle ’ at 
the camp,” the speaker went on; “but the old fel- 
low was as much taken back as I was. He stood up 


41 


The Sleighing Party 

on his haunches and stared at me, and I stood rooted 
to the spot, as they say in the Diamond Dick novels.” 

Rodney was listening, too, and asking eager ques- 
tions, and Evelyn Taylor was chiming in. Isabel 
soon forgot about Caroline and the odd look on her 
face. 

When the last of the cream-cake and coffee had 
vanished, they all rose, and the room was cleared 
for dancing: it had a surprisingly good hardwood 
floor. Fraulein Ewald and Evelyn Taylor took 
turns in playing the old piano in the corner, and the 
black-bearded man accompanied them excellently 
upon his violin. 

After two or three waltzes and two-steps, which 
Isabel had danced with Rodney Fox and Eric 
Thomas, Fred Delafield came up to the group where 
she was standing. 

“ I’ve been watching,” he said genially, with the 
pleasantry of an older man talking to youngsters — 
he was at least twenty-two ! — “ and Miss Carleton 
dances the best of anybody here. She’s just slender 
enough, and so light on her feet. She’s like one of 
those birds that just skim the water, but never really 
touch it. I insist on having a dance with her.” 

Isabel remembered that Rodney had said, “ He’s 
the best dancer in our frat,” and she flushed and 
stammered as she stepped forward to dance with 
Fred. And then, glancing around at the interested 
faces of the boys and girls, she saw that Caroline 
looked as if she had bitten into something very sour. 

“ Perhaps she thinks I oughtn’t to dance with 


42 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


the college people,” thought Isabel uncomfortably; 
but there was nothing to do but go on. Miss Tay- 
lor struck up a rollicking two-step, and Isabel and 
her partner were off in a wild, light, rhythmical 
dance. 

“ You certainly do it well,” said the young man 
admiringly. “ It comes as naturally to you as 
breathing, doesn’t it?” 

“ Well, I was sent to dancing school as soon as I 
was old enough,” said the girl, happy in the recog- 
nition of her accomplishment — “ and I’ve always 
loved it.” 

“ Let me teach you some new steps that I’ve just 
learned in Chicago,” Delafield said, after they had 
made a few circuits of the room in silence. “ Would 
you like to learn them? ” 

“ Oh, indeed I should!” 

“ Well, then, here goes.” 

He began to teach her some difficult steps, and 
graceful glides and turnings. Gradually, the others 
stopped dancing, and crowded around the doorway 
to watch. Isabel, unconscious of the eyes upon her, 
gave herself up to the charm and sway of the dance. 
She even forgot about Delafield himself, merely 
aware of his perfect dancing and skilful guidance. 
Rodney Fox smiled and nodded at her as she floated 
past, but the faces of the others were in a whirling 
haze. 

At last the two stopped, panting and laughing, 
while a ripple of applause ran around the circle. 

“ How beautifully Isabel does it, doesn’t she?” 


The Sleighing Party 43 

cried Molly Ramsay to Caroline, who stood frown- 
ing beside the door. 

“ Oh, yes, not badly,” answered Caroline tartly; 
“ but I should think she’d be ashamed to monopolise 
all the attention. It isn’t ladylike.” 

Molly Ramsay stared. “Isabel not ladylike?” 
she exclaimed. “ Why, that’s a queer remark, 
Caro, when she’s always been the most ladylike of 
all of us.” 

“ Come on, Caro,” cried Rodney, coming up just 
then, “ we’ll show ’em the way it’s done in Paree.” 
And the dancing began again, merrily enough. 
Fraulein was at the piano, Evelyn Taylor with Dela- 
field, and Isabel with the rather clumsy Harry Kil- 
patrick. 

At eleven o’clock there was more hot coffee, with 
meat- and cheese-sandwiches; and then everybody be- 
gan to get into wraps and overshoes again. The 
sleighs were brought round, with the horses rattling 
the bells, impatient to be off. It had grown colder, 
and the moon had gone down. 

Isabel cuddled under the robes and thought of 
nothing. She had had a very happy evening, and 
was ready to rest. She did not feel like joining in 
the songs that the others sang — Seeing Nellie 
Home , and Hot Time, and Just a Song at Twilight. 
She wrapped herself in a steamer rug, and listened 
dreamily to the melody, and to the almost inex- 
haustible gaiety of her companions. 

The ride home was swift and uneventful, but the 


44 


Isabel Garletoris Year 


party were shivering and somewhat subdued before 
the sleigh glided into town. 

Rodney Fox got out at the Carleton gate, and 
helped Isabel to alight. As she stood on the side- 
walk, and shook down her coat, after the cramped 
position that she had been in during the ride, the girl 
uttered an exclamation of dismay: “ Oh, Rod! my 
shawl — mother’s shawl — the one she thinks so 
much of! I don’t seem to have it. Will you look 
in the sleigh? ” 

Rodney pulled the flash-light from his pocket, and 
rummaged among the blankets. “ Not here,” he 
said briefly. “ Must have lost it on the road.” 

“Oh, how could I?” wailed Isabel. “Mother 
will never forgive me.” 

“What is it?” asked Caroline peevishly. 
“ Only a shawl? Oh, it’ll be picked up somewhere. 
Your mother won’t care.” 

Isabel was shivering with cold and nervousness. 
“ I must have it,” she said. “ I dare not lose it. 
And if somebody finds it, he might be dishonest and 
keep it. Oh, dear ! ” 

“ Isabel, how silly you are ! ” cried Caroline. 
“ We can’t wait here all night. We’re frozen to 
stones as it is.” 

“ Drive on,” said Rodney shortly, to the driver. 
“ Don’t bother about it.” 

The man snapped his whip, and the sleigh moved 
on, trailing a chorus of good nights. 

Isabel turned to Rodney in angry surprise at his 


45 


The Sleighing Party 

indifference; but he had felt what she was thinking. 
“ I’m going for it,” he said gently, before she could 
reproach him. “ I’ll walk back and hunt for it in 
the sleigh tracks.” 

“ Oh, Rodney, no ! It’s too late, and too cold,” 
begged Isabel miserably. “ I know you’re nearly 
perishing as it is. I’ll just have to take a chance of 
getting it back by advertising.” 

“ Forget it,” said Rodney, in a voice that re- 
deemed the curtness of his words. And then he 
added in a lower tone, “ I’d do a lot more than that 
for you, Isabel.” 

Isabel flushed in the dark, she did not know ex- 
actly why. “ It’s awfully good of you,” she said 
gratefully. They walked up the steps in silence. 
“ Good night,” said Rodney cheerfully, holding out 
his hand; “when you wake up in the morning, the 
Golden Fleece will be in the clutches of Jason.” 

“ I suppose there is no use in trying to head you 
off,” Isabel answered with a mixture of relief and 
distress. “ I only hope that Jason’s frozen ‘ cor- 
pus ’ won’t have to be pulled out of a snowbank in 
the cold grey dawn.” 

u No danger,” laughed Rodney, running down the 
steps. “ Good night, Medea ! ” 

Isabel stood in the vestibule for a moment, and 
heard him go whistling down the street. Inside the 
hall, she crouched over the radiator for a long time; 
she had not realised how cold she was. At last she 
crept softly upstairs. 


46 Isabel Carletons Year 

When she was braiding her hair for the night, 
there was a tap at her door, and her mother entered, 
in a long blue dressing-gown. “ All right, sister? ” 
she asked sleepily, going over to turn down the bed 
for the tired girl. 

“ Surely, mother,” answered Isabel, with a guilty 
remembrance of the lost shawl. “ I said ‘ Please ’ 
and ‘ Thank you,’ and I didn’t steal the spoons. 
You shouldn’t have waked up — or stayed awake, — 
which is it? ” 

“ Well, I wanted to be sure that you were safe at 
home,” smiled Mrs. Carleton, kissing the girl’s 
cheek. “ Good night, Little One.” 

“ Good night, Little Mother,” said Isabel, re- 
turning the kiss, and thinking, “ I’ll tell her about 
everything to-morrow.” 

The next morning, while the family were at their 
late Sunday breakfast, Olga came in and said to 
Isabel, “ Some one to see you at the front door; he 
says, tell you it’s Yason .” 

Isabel laughed and ran out into the hall. Rod' 
ney, red-cheeked and smiling, held out the striped 
shawl, with, “ Here’s that prize package, Miss 
Medea.” 

“ Oh, Rodney, thank you more than I can tell,” 
cried Isabel, clasping the gay folds of the shawl in 
her arms. “ How far did you walk, and how did 
you find it, and weren’t you nearly frozen? ” 

“ Well, if you must know, I walked two miles and 
back, and I found it hanging on a bush, and I was 


47 


The Sleighing Party 

a little cold — nipped an ear and a toe — but all 
that doesn’t matter. I got the Golden Fleece, and 
that’s the main thing.” 

“ I never can thank you enough. You don’t 
know how much this means.” The girl’s voice 
trembled. “ I could never have borne it if I had 
lost grandmother’s shawl forever. Mother would 
have mourned it to the end of her days.” 

“ Then, if you’re happy, I’m repaid,” said Rod- 
ney. “ Give my compliments to your mother.” 
He lifted his hat, and vanished down the steps. 

Isabel, with the shawl over her arm, returned 
gratefully to the dining-room. “ If I hadn’t got it 
back, I should never have dared to think about that 
sleigh ride again,” she said to herself. She did not 
know what trouble the sleigh ride was preparing for 
her, in spite of her recovery of the shawl. 


CHAPTER IV 


RUNNING FOR OFFICE 



HE next Tuesday morning, Isabel was on her 


i way to school. She was thinking of the 
chrysoprase ring, and wondering how long it would 
be before she w r ould have the money to pay for it. 
“ At any rate, I’ll have a long time to enjoy the ring 
after I do get it,” she said to herself. 

Just then she saw Caroline Harper, walking in 
front of her. She had hardly seen Caroline on 
Monday, because they both seemed to be very busy. 
So now she hurried her pace and caught up with her 
friend just before they reached the High School 
steps. 

“ The sleigh ride was fine, Caro,” said Isabel 
heartily. “ I hope you told Ellery how much we 
all enjoyed it.” 

“ I told him that some of the party seemed to en- 
joy themselves a great deal,” responded Caroline 
sourly. 

“ Why, / thought they all did,” answered Isabel. 
“ They were all talking about it yesterday. Such a 
lovely supper, wasn’t it? ” 

“Yes, it was all right,” admitted Caroline. 
“ Did you find that scarf or shawl, or whatever it 
was you lost? ” 


Running for Office 49 

“ Oh, yes, it came back,” Isabel replied; and Caro- 
line did not ask how. 

At that moment two showily dressed girls passed 
them. They were Seniors, but Isabel had never 
known them very well, since the school was so large 
that the students formed separate groups of friends. 

Caroline looked after the two girls, and began to 
laugh. “ Oh, Isabel, look,” she said in a low voice. 
“ See how queerly Anna Foley and Frieda Becker 
have their hair done up, — in those funny snails over 
their ears. They look as if they had cinnamon buns 
on their heads.” 

“ That’s the way those girls from Chicago had 
their hair done when they visited the classes with 
Molly Ramsay last week,” Isabel replied. “ I sup- 
pose Anna and Frieda thought it looked nice.” 

“ It certainly is the limit,” giggled Caroline, 
“ They ought to be told what frights they are mak- 
ing of themselves.” 

Isabel was holding to the brim of her hat, in the 
high wind, as they went up the steps. “ Oh, they’ll 
get over it,” she said lightly. “ Don’t you remem- 
ber when we were in the Eighth Grade we got a no- 
tion to do our hair up in knobs on the backs of our 
heads — until our mothers interfered?” 

“Did we?” answered Caroline languidly. “I 
don’t remember, I’m sure. Anyway, Anna and 
Frieda are dreadfully common girls, and I feel more 
than ever that I don’t want to have anything to do 
with them.” Caroline’s father, who was a lawyer, 
was from the South, and Caroline had often spoken 


50 Isabel Carleton’s Year 

of the “ exclusiveness of the old Southern families.” 

“ There comes Harry Kilpatrick,” she went on, 
looking back down the long hall. “ Isn’t it too bad 
that he works in a grocery store after school and on 
Saturdays? He earns his spending-money that 
way.” 

“ Why, it’s all right if he needs to,” said Isabel 
absently. 

“ He doesn’t, really. His father has money 
enough, but Harry told me he wanted to begin to do 
something for himself. Boys that work are so tire- 
some; they never have time to do anything, and 
they aren’t so free with their money, either, as the 
boys that don’t work.” 

“ I suppose it means more to them when they earn 
it themselves,” replied Isabel. She was thinking of 
a construction in German that she wanted to puzzle 
out before the class was called. She felt uncom- 
fortable, too, that Caroline should say such ill-na- 
tured things; and she seemed to recall, in an uncer- 
tain way, that Caroline had been saying that sort of 
thing for a long time now. She dismissed the 
thought, however, when she had hung up her wraps 
and hurried to the German recitation room. 

Fraulein Ewald was sitting at the desk, and Isa- 
bel went up to ask her a question. When it was 
answered, the Fraulein, stout and grey-haired, 
looked up and smiled at the girl. “ I was glad to 
hear, to-day,” she said, “ that the Seniors are talk- 
ing of having you for the class president, for the 
second semester.” 


5i 


Running for Office 

Isabel was surprised, for she had not seriously 
considered running for the office. One or two of 
the students had said something to her about the 
matter, but she had not thought they were in earnest. 
The classes chose two presidents a year; and being 
President of the Senior class during its last semester 
was an especial distinction, because of the activities 
at Commencement time. 

“ I should feel honoured, I’m sure, if they should 
want me,” Isabel returned happily. 

“ You ought to have it,” said Fraulein, “ because 
your standings are good, and you are what they call 
an ‘ all-round ’ sort of girl, popular with the different 
groups. I hope you’ll be elected.” 

Isabel took her seat, excited at the thought of 
“ going in for politics.” At luncheon that noon she 
was glowing and absorbed. 

“What is it, child?” asked Mrs. Carleton, who 
was quick to notice the unusual look in the girl’s 
eyes. 

“ I’ll tell you after lunch, mother,” answered Isa- 
bel, pinching her napkin into folds with nervous 
fingers. 

Up in her room, she told her mother hurriedly, 
while she was tidying herself to go back to school. 
“ The girls have been talking about my running for 
class president,” she said, brushing back her hair. 
“And Fraulein Ewald spoke of it, too; and Eric 
Thomas told me on the way home from school that 
I was sure to get it.” 

“ That would be fine,” said Mrs. Carleton, sit- 


52 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


ting down in the willow chair; “but are you per- 
fectly certain you want to go in for it? Those 
things don’t always turn out satisfactorily. You 
might not be elected, and then you’d feel hurt. 
You’re rather sensitive, little girl.” Mrs. Carleton 
rose to straighten Isabel’s collar and smooth the 
coiled braids. 

“ Oh, mother, I don’t see how anything bad can 
happen. They can just vote for or against me; and 
if they don’t want me, all well and good. If they 
do, why, so much the better.” 

u Very well, if you are sure you want to enter 
the race; but you must take things like a man, if they 
don’t happen to come out as you want them to.” 

Isabel laughed, and patted her mother on the 
cheek. u Now don’t you go to worrying, Mother- 
of-Three,” she said. “ It will be all right, I’m 
sure.” And she snatched a clean handkerchief, took 
a last peep into the mirror, and ran downstairs. 

That afternoon at school she met Anna Foley in 
the hall. The girl’s hair was plainly braided and 
brought up around her head with a black bow. 
“ How do you do, Anna? ” said Isabel cordially, as 
she had always done. 

Anna looked at her coldly, and passed on without 
speaking. Isabel was puzzled and alarmed, but she 
was so busy that she did not have much time to think 
of the incident. 

In the cloakroom, between classes, she found 
Frieda Becker standing before the mirror, making 
those useless dabs at her collar that girls seem to 


Running for Office 53 

delight in. Her hair also was braided and tied up 
in front. She turned and left the room without 
speaking. Isabel felt a painful foreboding in her 
heart, but she did not confide it to anybody. 

The next day, she brought a box of home-made 
candy to school, as she frequently did. All the girls 
brought candy, at all times and seasons. She passed 
her box first to Lois Tucker. “ Electioneering 
candy? ” asked Lois, with a good-naturedly satirical 
smile, taking a large piece of the fudge. 

Isabel said nothing. She had not thought that 
her commonplace box of candy could be regarded 
as a bid for votes. 

Verna Schofield took a piece, also with a mean- 
ing smile. “ Offer it to the boys,” she said frankly. 
“ They can get you a lot more votes than the girls.” 

Isabel put the box of candy away in her desk. 
There was a tightening at her throat, and she felt 
strange and miserable. 

During the next day or two, queer things hap- 
pened. Harry Kilpatrick, who sat next to her in the 
English Literature class, did not speak to her at all, 
except to make stiff, or even gruff, answers to her 
remarks. He even hurried past her on the street, 
with only the merest and coolest nod. Two or three 
other people seemed to treat her with a kind of chilly 
suspicion. 

“ I suppose I just imagine it,” thought Isabel. 
“ The election is making me nervous and self-con- 
scious.” She did not talk of the election very much, 


54 


Isabel Garleton’s Year 


except now and then to Molly Ramsay. Caroline 
Harper had suddenly become warmly friendly again, 
but she seemed to avoid speaking of the choice of 
class president. 

Rodney Fox came in, one evening, to bring Mrs. 
Carleton one of the potted hyacinths that his mother 
was especially successful with, and that she some- 
times sent around to her friends. 

“ I hear they’re going to run you for class presi- 
dent, Isabel,” he said. “ I hope you’ll get it, and 
I feel sure you will. They all like you. You’ve 
always got on well with the different bunches.” 

“ I don’t know whether they’ll want me or not,” 
hesitated Isabel. It seemed foolish to tell what she 
had noticed of late, because there was nothing really 
definite. 

“ Oh, they’re sure to,” answered Rodney. 
“ Don’t you remember what a big vote you got when 
you were secretary, in the sophomore year? ” 

“ Ye-e-s,” said Isabel. “ But anyway, I’m not 
worrying about it.” This, however, was not strictly 
true. She was worrying, for she feared the humili- 
ation of defeat. 

The day of the election came. Isabel had de- 
cided to give her vote for Amy Ellsworth, who, 
though somewhat pushing, was a kindly and capable 
girl. 

The big English classroom was full of chattering 
and laughing boys and girls. The last-semester’s 
president had left school on account of a serious ill- 


55 


Running for Office 

ness, and the vice-president, Edward Whitman, was 
in the chair. A silence fell on the room when he 
called the meeting to order. 

After the preliminaries, “ Nominations for the 
class president are now in order,” said the youth in 
the chair. 

“ I nominate Isabel Carleton,” said Lois Tucker 
quickly. 

“ I second the nomination,” added Amy Ells- 
worth. 

“ And I,” said Harry Kilpatrick, rising, and look- 
ing about with something very like a sneer, “ I nom- 
inate Willard Thoms.” Willard was a gay, likable 
boy, a poor student, but a “ good mixer,” as the say- 
ing is. 

The nomination was seconded. Amy Ellsworth 
and Harold Spears also received nominations. 

The voting was by ballot. There was an un- 
usual silence while the votes were being written and 
collected. The girls whispered to one another, but 
the feeling of constraint was clear. 

Isabel tried to look unconscious of the fact that 
a number of boys and girls were eyeing her doubt- 
fully or unkindly. She had never felt so distinctly 
uncomfortable in her life. There was a cold feel- 
ing at her heart, that told her that something was 
very decidedly wrong; but she did not know where 
the trouble lay. She sat tearing up bits of paper, 
and talking nonsense in an undertone with Molly 
Ramsay. Caroline Harper sat on the other side of 


56 Isabel Carletons Year 

the room with Verna Schofield, and did not look at 
Isabel at all. 

At last — after what seemed ages to at least one 
candidate — the tellers had counted the ballots, and 
the chairman rose to give the returns. 

Willard Thoms was elected. Isabel was de- 
feated by two votes. 

“ I won’t show that I care,” said Isabel to her- 
self. “ I just won’t.” 

She waved her hand in mock ceremony, at Wil- 
lard, smiled over at Amy, and continued to whisper 
jokes to Molly, who squeezed her hand, and said 
two or three times, “ Oh, my dear, I am so sorry! ” 

“ It’s all right,” said the defeated girl, bravely. 
“ It doesn’t make any difference.” 

“ It does, too,” whispered Molly in return. 
“ There’s something queer about it, and I’m going 
to find out what it is.” 

The voting for the other officers went on. Isabel 
was not suggested for any other position, but Amy 
Ellsworth was elected secretary. 

After the meeting was over, Molly slipped away, 
her bright face quite set and determined. “ Wait 
for me in the cloakroom, Infant,” she said, giving 
her friend’s hand a last squeeze. 

Isabel could not trust herself to join the groups 
that were vehemently talking over the election. She 
went to her desk in the Assembly Room, taking a 
long time to collect her books and papers. “ I can’t 
cry till I get home,” she thought. It was all she 


57 


Running for Office 

could do to keep back the tears. “ Oh, if I had 
known what it was like, I never should have gone in 
for it,” she murmured, sorting out some notes, with- 
out seeing what she was doing. “ I don’t care so 
much about losing the office; but there was some- 
thing queer about it — I can’t tell what.” A bitter 
sense of injustice made her lips tremble, and her 
hands shake. 

Most of the girls had gone from the cloakroom 
when she went to put on her wraps. Molly was 
waiting for her, and drew her out into the corridor. 
“ I think you ought to know, Isabel,” said Molly, 
her voice sharp with indignation, “ that it was Caro- 
line Harper who spoiled your chance for the votes.” 

Isabel’s heart gave a jump. She had been, away 
down in her soul, wondering what Caroline knew 
about the matter. “How?” she asked, when she 
could get her breath. 

“Why, she told Anna and Frieda that you had 
made fun of the way they did their hair, and that 
you said a professor’s daughter was too good to 
associate with their crowd.” 

For a moment, Isabel stood speechless. Then she 
burst out wrathfully, “ How dare she say such 
things? It was Caroline herself who talked about 
their hair.” 

“ And she told Harry Kilpatrick,” Molly went 
on, “ that you said you couldn’t stand boys that 
worked — that they were tiresome and stingy. You 
know Harry works in a grocery store after four and 
on Saturdays. He was furious, and said you were 


58 Isabel Garletoris Year 

a snob, and that he would defeat you if he died doing 
it. And he said you had always been so nice 
to him, and he had no idea you were such a hypo- 
crite.” 

Isabel put her hands over her ears. “ For 
mercy’s sake, don’t tell me any more. Oh, Molly, 
it’s too awful! ” 

She would not let Molly walk home with her. 
“ Please, please, Molly, I can’t talk,” she said. “ I 
want to be alone. I’m not in a fit state of mind to 
be with any one, not even you.” Molly kissed her 
and went on ahead, leaving Isabel to slip out of the 
side door of the building. With an unbearable sense 
of injury and grief, she plodded home through the 
snow. 

Mrs. Carleton was reading in her room, when 
Isabel came upstairs. She laid down her book when 
the girl came slowly in and stood beside her. “ Dear 
child! ” she said, for she saw at once that something 
unexpectedly dreadful had happened. 

Isabel knelt down and put her head against her 
mother’s arm. “ Oh, mother, I’ve been hurt so! ” 
she sobbed. “ I’ve been so terribly hurt! ” 

“ Did you lose, dear? That isn’t so bad. I 
thought you were going to take it like a man.” 

Isabel kept on crying, glad of the relief after so 
long keeping back the tears. “ I didn’t care about 
not being president,” she wailed. “ It isn’t that at 
all.” 

“ Then what is it? ” 

“ It’s Caroline. She told things about me that 


59 


Running for Office 

weren’t true. She said that I had said horrid un- 
kind things about some of the class — things that I 
never dreamed of saying. And they believed what 
she told them, and they were furious at me, and 
voted against me.” Her voice broke into sobs 
again. 

Mrs. Carleton took off Isabel’s hat, and smoothed 
the bowed golden head. She waited for the tears 
to spend themselves. 

“ Oh, mother ! ” the girl burst out again — “ to 
think it should be Caroline — that I’d always trusted 
and been friends with! To think that she should 
treat me like this ! ” 

Mrs. Carleton sighed. “ I’ve been wondering 
about Caroline for some time,” she said. “ She 
hasn’t seemed as loyal as I could have wished. 
There have been little things — I couldn’t exactly 
say what — that have disturbed me. Has anything 
happened lately, that she could feel especially re- 
sentful at? ” 

“Why, no,” answered Isabel quickly; and then 
she added more thoughtfully, “ I noticed that she 
didn’t seem pleased that I danced with the college 
crowd out at Middleton — you know I told you that 
Rod’s friend, Mr. Delafield, taught me some new 
steps. But I couldn’t very well help being pleasant 
to those people — ■ it happened that I was with them 
at the table.” 

“ Perhaps you weren’t as considerate as you might 
have been,” said Mrs. Carleton, taking Isabel’s 
nervous hand and patting it gently. “ It was Caro- 


6o 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


line’s party, and perhaps you should have given her 
more attention.” 

“ Well, maybe I should,” admitted Isabel, wiping 
her eyes; “ but even so, I don’t see how she could be 
so cruel. It hurts — it hurts so, to have some one 
that you have trusted do such a terrible thing.” 
Mrs. Carleton did not answer. After a while, Isa- 
bel asked humbly, “ Do you think there is anything 
I can do to straighten things out? They seem hope- 
lessly tangled at present.” 

“ I should go to the people that had been mis- 
informed. Did you tell me who they were? ” 

“ Anna Foley and Frieda Becker, to begin with, 
and Harry Kilpatrick, and I don’t know how many 
others.” 

“ Well, you might go to Anna and Frieda, some 
day, when you get over feeling so hurt, and tell them 
that what they heard was not true.” 

“ But they’ll think it was, just the same.” 

“ No, I’m sure you can make them understand 
that you are telling the truth. They’ll believe you.” 

“And Harry?” 

“ Just tell him, too.” 

“ I don’t believe I can bear to say anything to 
him about it. It seems such an awkward thing to 
talk about. Won’t you speak to him, mother? ” 

“Why, yes; I’ll go to Mr. Crowell’s, where he 
works. I’ve seen him in there two or three times 
lately, when I’ve been ordering groceries.” 

“And Caroline?” Isabel’s tears began to flow 
again. 


6i 


Running for Office 

Mrs. Carleton looked into her daughter’s hurt, 
drawn face. “ Dear child,” she said, “ it’s hard to 
see you learning that the little school world is like 
the grown-up world outside. I wish I could shield 
you from such experiences.” 

“Young people’s hurts are just as bad as grown 
people’s,” said Isabel. “ Perhaps they don’t seem 
so important after years have gone by, but they are 
just as hard to bear at the time.” 

“ I know they are, dear; and worse, perhaps, be- 
cause young people have not learned how to bear 
trouble. You are too much hurt to say anything to 
Caroline now. Just wait and see what she says, 
herself.” 

“ I will,” Isabel replied, wiping her eyes and 
smoothing her hair. “ Oh, dear, I’m so untidy, and 
so worn out ! ” 

“ Now, you go and get into your kimono, and 
brush your hair, and you and I will have tea in your 
room. I’ll go and tell Olga to make it. And after 
we’ve had tea, I’ll read to you, and you can have 
your dinner in bed. That’ll be nice, won’t it? I’m 
sure you’ll feel better when to-morrow comes.” 

“ I always feel better when I’ve been with you, 
Mother-Bird,” smiled the girl. “ And I love tea 
in the Canton cups, and I love to have you read to 
me.” 

Mrs. Carleton went to get the tea, and Isabel, 
putting on her silk kimono that Aunt Felicia had 
sent her for Christmas, and brushing her hair 
thoughtfully before the glass, began to feel soothed 


62 


Isabel Carleton's Year 


and rested, and to believe the world not quite so 
black as it had seemed an hour ago. 

The next day she was, to all appearances, almost 
her happy self again; but the bitterness had not quite 
departed. Caroline was not at school, and Isabel 
worked hard in the library between classes, and did 
not have to talk about the election. To Molly Ram- 
say she said, “ We’ll talk it over later, when I feel 
better, but let’s not discuss it to-day.” 

“ Of course not, if you say so,” said Molly wist- 
fully, offering a consolatory paper bag of caramels, 
“ but I’m just as sorry as I can be.” 

After lunch Isabel met Anna Foley coming out 
of the German recitation room, where she had been 
copying some references. “ Come back in here with 
me, Anna,” said Isabel, stepping into the room. “ I 
want to talk to you.” 

Anna threw up her head, and a defiant look shot 
into her eyes. “ I don’t want to talk to you,” she 
said angrily. 

“ Do come and sit down,” said Isabel, taking 
Anna gently by the arm. “ There has been a mis- 
take.” Anna came reluctantly into the room and 
sat down, but her face was hard and cold. “ Some 
one told me,” Isabel went on, “ that some one else 
told you that I had said unkind things about you. 
It isn’t true — it isn’t true at all, Anna. I never 
said anything unkind about you in my life.” 

“ We-ell, it seemed to come pretty straight,” mur- 
mured Anna, without looking up. She was draw- 
ing meaningless figures on the tablet in her lap. 


Running for Office 63 

“ Did you ever hear of my saying such things 
before? ” asked Isabel. 

“ No/’ said Anna, “ I never did; it really seemed 
queer that you should do anything like that.” 

“ I wouldn’t, and I didn’t,” answered Isabel. 
“ There was nothing true about it at all.” She did 
not want to hurt the girl’s feelings by telling her 
that Caroline had ridiculed her hair. 

“ I honestly didn’t think you’d do such a thing,” 
replied Anna in a softer tone. “ But it sounded so 
true to life — ” 

“ Then it sounded something that it wasn’t. 
Please don’t believe it any more, Anna. I give you 
my word that I never said it.” 

The girl lifted her blue eyes and looked at Isabel 
searchingly. “ I don’t believe you did say it,” she 
said at last, drawing a long breath. “ And I’m go- 
ing to tell Frieda that it isn’t true.” 

“ Oh, I’m so glad! ” cried Isabel. 

“ But it doesn’t help about the votes,” said Anna 
ruefully. “ We voted against you, and got all the 
girls in our set to do it, too. It’s too bad — it’s just 
too bad for anything. We wanted you for presi- 
dent, you know, but we were so mad we couldn’t 
think of anything else.” 

“ Never mind; I don’t care about the votes,” said 
Isabel. Her heart was lighter, now that this much 
of the trouble had been cleared up. 

“ I’m going to tell Frieda now,” said Anna, jump- 
ing up. 

Isabel went to the window, and stood looking out 


64 


Isabel Garletoris Year 


across the town, to the University dome on the hill. 
It was almost time for the German class to begin. 
Presently Fraulein Ewald came in with her books 
under her arm. “ Guten Tag , Fraulein Carleton,” 
she smiled. And then she said in a puzzled way, 
“ I can’t understand how you didn’t happen to be 
elected president of the class yesterday.” 

Isabel did not reply for a moment. “ I suppose 
they didn’t want me, Fraulein,” she said with an 
effort. “ That’s quite possible, you know.” 

“ There must have been something more to it,” 
said the kindly teacher. 

Just then the class began to come into the room. 
Anna and Frieda waved their hands at Isabel as they 
took their places; and Isabel opened her Nathan der 
JVeise with a sense of kindness and relief. She was 
rather glad that Caroline was not at school, for it 
would have been difficult to meet her. u She must 
feel guilty,” thought Isabel, “ to stay away. Or 
perhaps the worry of it has made her sick.” And 
then she added to herself, “ I’d rather be in my 
place than hers.” 

On Sunday afternoon, Isabel was in her room, 
writing a letter to her grandfather, when she heard 
Caroline downstairs in the hall. “ I can’t see her — 
I can’t,” she said aloud, dropping her pen and get- 
ting up to close the door. 

But Caroline was already halfway up the stairs. 
She burst into the room with a hasty knock. Isabel 
shrank back against the writing desk, and Caroline, 


65 


Running for Office 

in her coat and hat, stood staring palely at her from 
the threshold. For a minute neither of them spoke. 
Then Caroline burst out, “ Oh, Isabel, I don’t blame 
you for not wanting to see me. But I just couldn’t 
bear it — I had to come. I told mother, and she 
said it was the only thing to do.” 

Isabel took up her pen nervously, and turned it 
round and round. She could not think of anything 
to say. 

Caroline was very white, and there were dark 
lines under her eyes. “ I’ve been so ashamed, I 
couldn’t sleep,” she went on in a choking voice. 

“ But — why — why — ? ” began Isabel. “ How 
could you — ?” She stopped; it seemed almost 
shameful to talk about such a thing. 

Caroline was twisting her gloves in her hands. 
“I — well, it was just plain jealousy, I suppose. 
You’re better looking than I am, and your standings 
are better, and you dance better, and somehow, peo- 
ple seem to like you more than they do me. It 
seemed as if you had everything so sort of easy — 
that things just came to you, you know — ” 

“ Oh-h ! ” gasped Isabel. It seemed unbelievable 
that any one should think of her in that way, when 
she had to deny herself so much, and the very things 
she wanted most were so impossible to obtain. 

“ And at Middleton that night, those college peo- 
ple took you up, as if you were one of them, and 
they didn’t look at me. And then Mr. Stacy told 
me I was going to fail in geometry, and I probably 


66 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


couldn’t graduate with the class — ” Caroline’s 
voice had risen to a wail. “ And when the girls be- 
gan to talk about voting for you for president, I 
felt so — I can’t tell you — didn’t you ever feel 
jealous, Isabel? ” 

“ No, not in that way, I’m afraid. Not like 
that! ” 

“ People who haven’t felt it can’t understand. I 
don’t ask you to forgive me, Isabel; but I just had 
to tell you.” 

If Caroline had cried, Isabel would have pitied 
her less. But she seemed to suffer too much even 
to cry. The haggard misery of her face was dread- 
ful. She threw herself into a chair and laid her 
head down on the desk. 

Isabel put her arm around the girl’s shoulder. 
“ I can’t honestly say that it is easy to forgive you, 
Caroline,” she said. “ I trusted you so — I never 
dreamed that you would do anything like that.” 

u I never did, either,” answered Caroline in a 
muffled voice. “ I wouldn’t have supposed I could. 
You don’t know what you’ll do until you do it.” 

“ Yes, probably that’s true,” answered Isabel. 
And she thought, “ What if I were failing in my 
studies, and couldn’t graduate with the class, and I 
were jealous of some other girl that seemed more 
fortunate than I was — ? Perhaps I’d do some- 
thing even worse than Caroline has done.” Then she 
said aloud, “ Never mind, now that it’s all explained. 
We’ll try to forget it, and begin all over again.” 


Running for Office 67 

Caroline lifted her head. “ 1 can’t forget it for 
a century,” she groaned. But her colour was com- 
ing back, and her face was less drawn and pained. 
“ I want to tell you something. Father says that if 
I can’t graduate, I might as well be somewhere else. 
And I guess I’m going to stay the rest of the year 
with his relatives in Kentucky • — there’s a private 
school there that they want me to go to. I couldn’t 
bear to stay here and face the boys and girls after 
what has happened. A lot of them know now, and 
the rest will know pretty soon.” 

“ It will be easier to go, won’t it? ” said Isabel. 
“ And you’ll have a good time seeing all sorts of 
new things and new people. But it will seem aw- 
fully queer without you, Caro.” 

Caroline looked up at her companion. “ We can 
be friends when I come back, can’t we?” There 
were tears in her eyes now, and her voice trembled. 
“ And you’ll write to me? ” 

“ Yes, of course, of course,” cried Isabel, pity- 
ingly. “ It’s all right now, and you mustn’t think 
about it. I’ll come over to-morrow and find out 
when you’re going.” 

“ Can I slip out without any one’s seeing me?” 
asked Caroline, rising and buttoning her coat. 

Isabel peeped into the hall. “ The coast is clear,” 
she smiled. “ I’m so glad you came over.” 

“ So am I,” rejoined Caroline. “ But it was 
hard! ” She took Isabel’s hand and pressed it, and 
then went out without saying anything more. 


68 Isabel Carleton’s Year 

After she had gone, Isabel sat a long time at her 
desk, before she finished the letter to her grand- 
father. And as she took up her pen, she said sigh- 
ing, “ I’m just beginning to find out what a mix-up 
life is!” 


CHAPTER V 


MORE ABOUT A RING 


HE next week was very full for Isabel. Caro- 



X line and her mother were starting for Ken- 
tucky on Thursday night; and there was much plan- 
ning and sewing and packing to be done, in all of 
which Isabel was called upon for companionship and 
advice. The other girls, either from embarrass- 
ment or scorn, kept away, and Caroline clung miser- 
ably to Isabel, who forgot her own injuries in her 
friend’s grief and contrition. Even Molly Ramsay 
shrank from going to the Harpers’. 

“ I just can’t, my dear,” she said. “ Caroline 
knows that I think she has behaved in a perfectly 
inexcusable way; she’d think me a hypocrite if I went 
there, and I should feel like one myself. I honestly 
do not see how you can go.” 

“ Well, I feel so terribly sorry for Caro that I 
can’t condemn her very much. She’s failed in her 
studies; and she’s ashamed to go back to school and 
face all the boys and girls after the things she told 
that weren’t true. It seems dreadful for us all to 
turn against her. And anyway, it’s only a week or 
two since we were ready enough to accept her hos- 
pitality, you know, Molly.” 


70 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


“ But we wouldn’t have done so if we had known 
what was coming, I’m sure. It’s awfully sweet of 
you, Golden-Hair, but I couldn’t be as forgiving as 
you are.” 

“ Oh, yes, you could. It’s because I’m so sorry 
for her; and if you think hard enough, I’m certain 
that you’ll feel just the same.” 

“ I’ll try, but I know it’s of no use,” said Molly, 
who had snatched a minute at Isabel’s desk before 
school called in the morning. “ How did you trans- 
late that hard passage on page 54 — the one be- 
ginning Morgen friih? I couldn’t make anything 
out of it.” And so Caroline and her troubles 
dropped from the conversation. 

On Thursday evening Isabel stayed at the Har- 
pers’ for dinner, and went to the station with Mrs. 
Harper and Caroline and Ellery. Just before the 
train started, Molly Ramsay and Eric Thomas hur- 
ried breathlessly up the platform, Eric with a box 
of candy, and Molly with an American Beauty rose 
twisted up in tissue-paper. Mrs. Harper was al- 
ready on the train, and Caroline was about to mount 
the steps. 

“ I came to say good-bye,” gasped Molly, kissing 
Caroline and thrusting the rose into her hand. 
“ I’m sorry I’m late. Oh, good-bye, Caro. I hope 
you’ll have a good trip.” 

Caroline could only stammer her thanks and joy. 

“ Good luck to you ! ” said Eric, giving her the 
box of candy and helping her up the steps. 

As the train began to move, and the little group 


7i 


More About a Ring 

on the platform turned away, Isabel whispered, 
“There! What did I tell you, Molly? You 
couldn’t help being sorry, either, could you? ” 

“ I think it was you and Eric that made me change 
my mind,” responded Molly. “ I was ashamed to 
let both of you outdo me in kindness.” 

Isabel and Ellery Harper walked back up town 
together. “ What a mess Caroline has made of 
things ! ” said Ellery, sighing. 

“ It’s too bad,” answered Isabel; and she thought 
to herself, “ How happy I am in spite of all my little 
ups and downs. When you see other people’s trou- 
bles, your own don’t seem so trying, somehow or 
other.” 

All the week she was studying for the semester ex- 
aminations — working, it seemed to her, day and 
night. And just in the midst of things Grandfather 
Stuart, who owned a large stock-farm at Dalton, 
thirty miles away, came in for a day or two. Isabel 
loved her grandfather, and gave him every moment 
that she could out of her “ jam-full and running- 
over ” days. 

It was now more than two weeks since she began 
to plan for her chrysoprase ring. Her allowance 
had come in, and bit by bit she was dropping such 
sums as she could spare into the copper-lustre pitcher 
that had been Aunt Alice’s. Several times when she 
had errands to do, she walked instead of paying car- 
fare; and hurriedly, for every minute was precious; 
she mended all her stockings, even some that seemed 
beyond repair — so that she would not have to buy 


72 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


new ones for a month or two; she cleaned her best 
white kid gloves herself, instead of sending them 
to the cleaner; and she bought cheaper note-paper 
than she liked to use. In a dozen small ways, she 
saved a few pennies or a dime, or fifty cents, and 
with a kind of impatient happiness dribbled the coins 
into the pitcher, thinking of the chrysoprase rain- 
drops waiting at Miss Titus’s to be transferred to a 
girlish finger. 

“ Saving is such hard work! ” she groaned; “ but 
I positively cannot live without the ring! ” She did 
not say much about it to any one, though, for she had 
a superstitious fear that if she talked about it, she 
would never get it. 

When Grandpa Stuart was going away, he slipped 
a silver dollar into Isabel’s hand, as she held his 
overcoat for him. “ Buy yourself a ribbon, Puss,” 
he said, smiling down at her with his dark eyes that 
were so much younger than his white hair and wrin- 
kled cheeks. Grandpa Stuart seemed to think that 
girls needed money chiefly to buy neck-ribbons. 

“Something better!” laughed Isabel. “Thank 
you ever so much, grandfather. You’re too good 
to me.” 

“ Nobody could be,” answered the old man gal- 
lantly, as he said good-bye. Only in his secret heart 
did he admit that Isabel was his favourite grand- 
child. 

The dollar fell into the copper-lustre pitcher with 
a triumphant clatter. “ What luck! ” it seemed to 
say. “ Now you’ll surely get the ring! ” 


73 


More About a Ring 

But somehow the money seemed to find a way of 
getting out of the pitcher almost as fast as it went 
in. 

On Friday noon Fanny came upstairs with a dis- 
consolate step. She sat down on Isabel’s bed, and 
stared moodily at the wall. 

“ What’s the matter, Angel Child? ” inquired Isa- 
bel, who was getting ready to go back to school, and 
had no time to lose. 

“ Some of our class want to have a sleighing party 
to-morrow afternoon,” said Fanny. “ It’s because 
three of us have birthdays this week and next, and 
we can celebrate ’em all together.” 

“ That’s nice,” said Isabel, burrowing in her closet 
for her heaviest shoes. There was a sinking at her 
heart. 

“ Everybody’s had a sleighing party but us,” 
Fanny went on; “ and we want to have a chaperone, 
and go out to Pheasant Branch for supper. It’ll 
cost at least a dollar, and perhaps more; and I owed 
most of my allowance to mother, and she doesn’t 
approve of borrowing, and I can’t ask her for any 
more money this month — ” 

“Well?” Isabel had emerged from the closet 
with a red face, and was taking off her tan shoes. 

“ I can’t very well get out of going,” added Fanny, 
“ for I’m one of the birthday people, you know.” 
There were tears in her eyes and her lip quivered. 

“ Why, I can let you have the money,” responded 
the elder sister quickly. “ I almost forgot about 
your birthday, but of course I intended to give you 


74 


Isabel Carletons Year 


something. Will this do instead of a present?” 
She hopped to the shelf, with one shoe off and one 
shoe on, and taking down the lustre pitcher, put two 
dollars into Fanny’s hand. “ Now you won’t have 
to scrimp if anything happens — if you have to pay 
for music or anything like that.” 

“ Oh, Isabel, how good of you ! ” Fanny gave a 
squeal of joy. “ Can you really afford it?” She 
hesitated guiltily, holding out the coins on her palm. 

“ Dear me, yes,” Isabel answered, lacing up her 
shoes very fast. “ My allowance is heaps bigger 
than yours, because I’m seventeen.” 

“ But aren’t you saving for your ring? ” 

“ Oh, that can wait. I sha’n’t die for want of 
it.” 

Fanny jingled the silver dollar and the four quar- 
ters together, as she skipped to the door. “ It’s 
peachy of you, Isabel,” she said warmly; “ but you’re 
the best sister in the world, anyway.” 

Isabel lifted the pitcher, and looked down at the 
dimes and nickels at the bottom. “ Oh, well,” she 
consoled herself, “ perhaps I can make it up some- 
how. I sha’n’t ever ride in the street-car, and it 
won’t hurt me to miss seeing the Ben Greet Play- 
ers — ” She hurried off to school, calculating how 
much she could save in the next fortnight. 

A few days afterward she found seventy-five cents 
under the edge of her plate at dinner, and glanced 
over at her mother with a grateful smile. 

“ We’re having a poor man’s dinner to-night,” 
said Mrs. Carleton, as she served the stew and boiled 


More About a Ring 75 

rice; “ but nobody must complain, for it’s in a good 
cause. There’s no dessert except some apples that 
grandmother sent in from the farm.” 

Isabel squeezed her mother’s hand as they were 
getting up from the table. “ It’s dear of you,” she 
whispered, “ but you mustn’t do it again. I don’t 
want the family to starve in order that I may be 
weighted down with jewels! ” 

Examination week saw a considerable addition to 
her hoard. She was too busy and too tired to go 
anywhere, and she rigidly denied herself all luxuries. 
But then, Rodney Fox brought her a pound box of 
bitter-sweets, “ to help out on the exams,” and she 
was not very much of a martyr after all. 

Then something very dreadful happened. Mrs. 
Hogan’s little daughter Nora died suddenly of heart- 
disease. Mrs. Hogan was the Carletons’ washer- 
woman. Nora had always been ailing, but her death 
was, of course, a shock to her family. Isabel, going 
to the Hogans’ door to leave a parcel of things that 
her mother had sent, caught a glimpse of some red 
geraniums and a wreath of paper roses in the dark- 
ened room beyond. Hurrying home, she slipped up 
to her room, emptied a handful of money out of the 
pitcher, and caught the next car down town. She 
bought a mass of short-stemmed pink and white 
roses and had them sent to the Hogans’ address. 

“ I just couldn’t bear not to,” she told her mother 
afterward. “ She was only seven, you know — just 
as old as Celia — and not to have any flowers — ” 
“ It was quite right of you, my dear,” said Mrs. 


76 Isabel Carleton’s Year 

Carleton; but she did not dare to ask about the ring. 

On Sunday morning, Isabel had started for church 
with Fanny, and had come back because she had for- 
gotten her prayer-book. While she was in her 
room, she heard her father and mother talking in 
the hall. 

“ Poor child,” said Mrs. Carleton, “ she doesn’t 
say anything, but I know it troubles her not to be 
able to get the ring that she’s set her heart upon.” 

“ Why, I thought she was going to buy it from 
her allowance,” answered Professor Carleton’s even 
voice. “ Hasn’t she got it yet? ” 

“ No, not yet.” Mrs. Carleton sighed. “ Such 
things don’t mean anything to me now, but I remem- 
ber that when I was a girl, pretty things were as much 
of a passion with me as they are with Isabel. I 
thought my life was blighted when I couldn’t have 
them.” 

“ Well, perhaps,” said Professor Carleton in a 
pained tone — “perhaps if I had gone into a more 
money-making profession, it would have been better 
for us all. I don’t want you and the girls to be un- 
happy. If I had stuck to law, I could probably have 
provided better for my family and given them more 
enjoyments and opportunities. But you know, 
Laura, when I gave up law, I didn’t dream that I 
was going to have you and the girls a few years 
later.” 

“ You didn’t know what you were coming to, did 
you, dear? ” said Mrs. Carleton, with tender raillery. 
“Well, don’t you worry, Arthur. There isn’t a 


77 


More About a Ring 

happier family anywhere than we are. The mate- 
rial things don’t count, when we have each other, 
and love each other — ” Her voice broke a little. 

Professor Carleton answered softly, “You’re the 
one that makes everything beautiful for us all. If 
I don’t make money, Laura, I have found a jewel 
of a wife. Her price is far above rubies.” 

“ Or chrysoprases,” added Isabel, as she heard her 
father and mother go downstairs. “ What’s a 
ring?” She snatched her prayer-book and hand- 
kerchief, and dashed through the house and out at 
the side door, to catch up with Fanny. 

The next day Eric Thomas came up behind Isabel 
in the hall, at school. “ Do you know what’s hang- 
ing over you, Isabel? ” he said. 

Isabel looked up at the ceiling in quick alarm. 

“ I’m speaking figuratively,” laughed Eric. 
“ You needn’t look so scared.” 

“ Ugh, I thought perhaps it was a spider ! ” Isa- 
bel began to laugh, too. “What do you mean, 
Eric?” 

“ The class is going to make up to you for that 
blooming mess about the votes for president. 
You’re going to have the valedictory.” 

“Oh, Eric!” cried Isabel. “I don’t believe I 
deserve it. There are plenty of others whose stand- 
ings are as high as mine. Your own are, you know.” 

“Well, the class votes on the five highest; and 
Mr. Stacy told me to-day that he was going to ask 
for the vote, by ballot, to-morrow.” 

“ I’ve had enough of this voting business,” said 


78 Isabel Carletoris Year 

Isabel, with a twinge of remembrance. The epi- 
sode of the class election had not entirely ceased to 
hurt. 

“ Piffle ! ” replied Eric good-naturedly. “ That 
other affair isn’t worth remembering. Now, you lie 
low and keep cool. I’m going to engineer this lit- 
tle tea-party — if you will permit me to mix my 
metaphors — and it’ll come out all right.” 

“ But, Eric,” protested Isabel, “ you ought to have 
the valedictory yourself. I don’t see any reason why 
I should take it away from you.” 

“ Don’t get fussed till it happens,” Eric replied. 
“ There’s the bell — I must beat it. Good-bye, 
Lady Val. You’ll be It” 

And so she was. When the ballot was taken, 
after school on Tuesday, the five who had the high- 
est standings were Isabel Carleton, Amy Ellsworth, 
Eric Thomas, Lois Tucker, and Rudolph Salzman. 

The votes were two to one in favour of Isabel. 

“Hooray!” spouted Eric, shaking both her 
hands, after the meeting. “ Didn’t I tell you so? ” 

“ I’m sorry it wasn’t you,” said Isabel. 

“ And I’m glad it was you,” answered the gener- 
ous boy. After the terrible thing that happened 
the next fall, Isabel always thought of Eric as he 
looked that day with unselfish kindness lighting up 
his face. 

“ You deserved it,” persisted Isabel. “ I don’t 
half so much, do I, Molly? ” 

“ I was so afraid something would happen to 
spoil it,” exulted Molly, with one hand on Isabel’s 


More About a Ring 79 

shoulder and the other busily passing about a paper 
bag of Jordan almonds. 

Rodney Fox was in for dinner that night, and he 
seemed even more pleased than the family, when he 
heard the news. “ Good for you, Isabel! ” he said, 
beaming with satisfaction. “ Here’s to you — ” 
He waved his glass of water. “ A toast to the vale- 
dictorian. Speech ! speech ! ” 

Blushing and confused, Isabel sat crumbling her 
bread. “ Do stop, Rod,” she begged. “ You’ll see 
how horribly I’ll do when the time comes. I shall 
be tongue-tied, I’m sure.” 

“ Oh, a woman can always find something to say,” 
Rodney replied. “ No danger of your lacking for 
words.” 

“ Is that what you think of us, now that you’ve 
got into college?” asked Mrs. Carleton quizzically. 

Rodney coloured a bit. “ Well, of course I mean 
girls,” he said rather lamely. “ They do gabble so l 
I often wonder why they can’t keep still for a few 
seconds at a time.” 

“ So do I, Rodney,” smiled Professor Carleton, 
nodding at Isabel, who made a face at him in return. 
“ But there’s one woman, anyway, whose voice we 
should all like to hear,” he went on; “and that’s 
Madame Felisini. I notice in to-night’s paper that 
she’s going to give a concert here — almost im- 
promptu, you might say — next Tuesday evening, on 
her way from Chicago to Minneapolis.” 

“ Oh, is she? ” said Mrs. Carleton eagerly. And 


8o 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


then she checked herself, adding more slowly, “ I’ve 
always wanted to hear her. She’s really wonderful, 
of course. And it’s so seldom that we have an op- 
portunity to hear a great singer here — ” 

“ You and father ought to go,” said Isabel, lay- 
ing down her fork. “ You shouldn’t miss it” 

“ I don’t believe we had better try,” said Mrs. 
Carleton, looking over at her husband. And then 
she said briskly, “ Do give Rodney another slice of 
the beef-loaf, Arthur, and some of the potato. And, 
Celia, won’t you drink another glass of milk if I ask 
Olga to bring it? ” 

The conversation changed, and Madame Feli- 
sini was not mentioned again; but after Rodney had 
gone, Isabel went into the sitting-room where Mrs. 
Carleton was mending a table-cloth that had been 
torn by an icy clothes-line. “ Now, mother,” said 
the girl, “ you and father positively must go to hear 
Madame Felisini next Tuesday. You’ve always 
wanted to hear her and you’ve never had the chance. 
If we girls didn’t take every cent that father can 
earn, you could go to Chicago sometimes for the 
opera. But anyway, you’ve just got to go to this 
concert, mother.” 

Mrs. Carleton did not look up from her sewing. 
“ I’d like to, dear,” she said wistfully, “ but I really 
can’t. The tickets are two dollars and a half apiece 
— I looked in the paper — and we can’t afford that 
much. Your father starts the next day for the meet- 
ing of the C.A., and he has to have a new hat, and 


More About a Ring 81 

new gloves, and ever so many things. No, let’s not 
talk any more about the Madame. She’ll have to 
sing her little songs without me.” 

u Well, I won’t say any more,” answered Isabel, 
patting the busy fingers that were plying the needle, 
44 but that won’t prevent my doing all the thinking I 
choose.” 

Mrs. Carleton looked up and smiled absently. 
44 Think all you want to, Little One,” she said, 44 but 
don’t worry about me. And won’t you go and help 
Fanny with her composition? It seems that she has 
to write something about Immigrants f and she 
doesn’t know how to begin.” 

44 Dear me,” said Isabel, turning away, 44 I’m sure 
I don’t know much about them, either, but I’ll do the 
best I can to help her.” She went out, frowning 
thoughtfully. She was not thinking about immi- 
grants, but something much nearer home. 

On Tuesday afternoon, shortly after Isabel had 
come in, Mrs. Carleton found a bunch of violets on 
her dresser; tucked among the flowers was an en- 
velope containing two tickets for the concert — which 
was really the event of the season in Jefferson. 

44 Oh, my blessed child, you shouldn’t have done 
this ! ” she cried, running into Isabel’s room, where 
the girl was curled up on the bed reading The Mill 
on the Floss . 44 You ought not to have spent the 

money that you have been saving for weeks.” 

Isabel laid down her book. 44 1 did it because it 
made me happy to do it, mother,” she said, 44 and it 
will break my heart if you and father don’t go. 


82 


Isabel Garletoris Year 


You’ve always wanted to hear Madame Felisini, and 
now you shall hear her.” 

“ But — ” began Mrs. Carleton, fingering the en- 
velope, “ but, Isabel — ” 

“ Not a word,” cried Isabel, springing up, and 
putting her hand across her mother’s lips. “ You’re 
going, and you’ll look like the Queen in her Garden, 
wearing your white voile and the violets.” 

And of course mother went, looking like the Queen 
in her Garden, and radiant with a joy that was not 
all on Madame Felisini’s account. 

The next morning, after she had seen her father 
off on a half-past-eight train, Isabel slipped into Miss 
Titus’s shop, on her way to school. “ I can’t buy 
the ring, Miss Titus,” she said cheerfully, though 
there was a catch in her voice. “ The pennies just 
won’t stay in my fingers long enough.” 

“ Oh, it’s too bad,” said Miss Titus, who had not 
got over being a girl herself, and loved pretty things 
as much as Isabel. “ Why don’t you go on trying 
for another month or two? ” 

“ No,” Isabel replied, biting her lip to keep it 
from quivering. “ If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. 
There’s always something that I just have to do with 
my money. I’ve given up the ring. Probably I 
don’t deserve it. I’m sorry that I made you lay it 
aside for so long,” she added contritely. 

“ It doesn’t make any difference,” said Miss Titus, 
taking two dollars out of the till and handing them 
to Isabel. “ A lady was in yesterday inquiring for 
a ring like that, and she will take it if I send her 


More About a Ring 83 

word. But I’m really unhappy that you’re not going 
to have it, for you like it so much.” 

“Yes, I do,” said Isabel, trying to smile, “but I 
guess it’s not for me. I must hurry, or I’ll be late 
for school.” She hastened out, winking back two 
very insistent tears. 

Four days later, she found her father before the 
fire when she came home from a tea at Molly Ram- 
say’s. His handsome scholarly head was bent over 
a book, as usual, and he looked as if he had never 
been away. Isabel ran to him and kissed him, and 
he held her fingers in his warm firm hand. 

“ I’m sorry I couldn’t be here when you came, fa- 
ther,” she said, unfastening her squirrel collar, “ but 
Molly wanted me to pour, and her cousin was there 
from Winona — ” 

“ It’s all right, Pussy,” returned the professor. 
“ Your mother and I were getting acquainted with 
each other again.” 

“ Saying nothing,” put in Mrs. Carleton from the 
button-holes that she was making in Celia’s pinafore. 

“ That’s one way,” laughed Professor Carleton. 
“ And here, little girl,” he said, reaching into his 
coat pocket, “ here’s something that I got for you 
while I was away.” He put into her hand a box, 
tiny and square, and tied up in white tissue paper. 

Isabel gasped under her breath, “ The ring! ” but 
she did not open the box at once. She dreaded to, 
just a trifle; father was so dear and queer and for- 
getful that one never knew what he was going to do. 

“ Holden insisted on my staying at his house, and 


Isabel Carleton s Year 


84 

I didn’t have any hotel bills,” said father, half- 
apologetically, reaching for his book. “ I was pass- 
ing a shop where there were hand-made rings for 
sale ” — he began to hunt for his place — “ and I 
went in. I thought I had heard you say something 
about wanting a ring — ” Isabel was slowly tear- 
ing off the outer layer of paper from the box. “ The 
woman asked me what colour my daughter wore the 
most,” Professor Carleton went on, adjusting his 
glasses, “ and I told her it was either blue or red, I 
couldn’t remember which.” Isabel glanced sadly at 
her mother across her father’s book. “ The woman 
laughed,” continued father, finding his place at last, 
“ and said there were two things always suitable for 
young girls, and that she had them both in one ring.” 
He paused, for he had begun to read. “ And so I 
got — coral and Japanese pearls.” 

He was halfway down the page, and Isabel opened 
the box. Her mother was watching her in concealed 
dismay, but the girl gave a cry of pleasure, and put 
her arms around her father’s neck. 

“It zvas coral that you wanted, wasn’t it?” he 
inquired anxiously, with his finger in his book, as he 
looked at her over his glasses. 

“ Yes, yes, father, and the ring is lovely,” said 
Isabel, setting the silver circle on her finger. “ How 
things do come to him who will but wait.” 

Mrs. Carleton took up her button-holes with a 
relieved sigh. 

Isabel sat a long time twisting the band of pink 
and white and silver, and looking at it with happy 


More About a Ring 85 

eyes. “ Father,” she said mischievously at last, 
“ were any of the foundations of the New Jerusa- 
lem made of coral? ” 

“ Of course not, child,” murmured her father 
without looking up. “ What has that to do with 
it? ” 

*“ Oh, nothing,” answered Isabel gaily, smiling 
over at her mother; “ but I do love my ring, father, 
even if ” — in a lower tone — “ it isn’t the New Jeru- 
salem kind.” 


CHAPTER VI 


A TALK WITH FATHER 

I come in?” asked Isabel, tapping at 
jLVA the door of her father’s study, one evening 
in the latter part of February. 

“Yes, yes! Surely,” called Professor Carleton, 
laying down his fountain pen as the door opened. 
He sat at his desk, with books all about him, on 
chairs and on the floor. The room was in shadow, 
except for the green-shaded light over the desk, but 
the white busts of Dante and Goethe glimmered 
from the tops of the book-cases. Mrs. Carleton, 
though she loved order, never interfered with the 
arrangement — or the lack of it — in her husband’s 
study. “ I think a man ought to have one room,” 
she used to say, “ where he can keep things just as 
he chooses, and revel in chaos if he likes.” 

Isabel stood poised on the threshold, looking 
doubtfully at her father. “ Are you sure Pm not 
wrecking your train of thought? ” she queried. 

“ Not in the least,” said the professor, with his 
finger still between the leaves of his Greek diction- 
ary. “What is it? Something vexing?” He 
held out his free hand to the girl, who came and took 
it, and then settled herself on the arm of his chair. 

86 


A Talk with Father 


87 


u No, nothing in particular, father,” answered 
Isabel, “ but I was studying away, and I felt home- 
sick to see you. We’re all so busy, you know, and 
you are away so much at classes and committee meet- 
ings — and now that you’re writing your book, it 
seems as if I don’t see much of you — ” 

“ I’m glad you came,” said father, squeezing her 
hand. “ I’ve been thinking about you a good deal 
lately, in my going and coming, and between the 
classes and committee meetings.” 

“About me, popsey? Why, what have I been 
doing? ” 

“ Well, you’ve been growing, for one thing, and 
getting older every minute. I’ve really noticed once 
or twice that you aren’t a little girl any more.” 

“ Of course not, silly professor. I’ve had my hair 
up for nearly a year. Probably you’ve never ob- 
served that it wasn’t down my back in two tails, as 
it used to be.” 

“ I wasn’t thinking about hair — at least not al- 
together.” Professor Carleton laid his dictionary 
aside, and put the cap on his fountain pen. “ But 
I think about you every time I see the college girls 
going back and forth, or straying into my classes.” 

“Why, father?” 

“ I see so many things that I shrink from having 
you copy.” 

“Dear me! What, for instance?” 

“ I don’t know how to say it, exactly. I know so 
little about women’s dress that I’m not much of an 
authority; but thin blouses, and low necks, and silk 


88 


Isabel Garletoris Year 


stockings and slippers in this cold weather seem to 
me very much out of place. And some of the girls 
appear to wear such extremes — huge bows, and hats 
cocked up in queer shapes, and coloured hose, and 
strange and wonderful neckwear, and shoes — 
Heaven preserve us, what shoes ! ” 

“ Why, they’re just trying to be stylish,” protested 
Isabel, patting her father on the shoulder. “ Prob- 
ably when you were in college, you thought the girls 
that did that sort of thing were perfect 4 queens,’ as 
the boys say now.” 

“ I’m sure I never did, in my wildest moments. 
Can you imagine your mother dressing like that?” 

Isabel giggled, and then straightened her face. 
“Why, no, of course not; but then, you know, fa- 
ther, I didn’t know mother when she was in college 
— and you didn’t, either, as a matter of fact.” 

“ Well, I’m certain that wherever she was, she 
was always dressed in good taste. And I want my 
daughter to dress in good taste, too, with a dark 
gown, and a white collar, and her hair — Do you 
know anything more beautiful than that?” He 
took up from the table an engraving of the head of 
a Greek woman in marble. The hair was waved 
over the forehead, and coiled softly on the neck. 
The face was regular and noble in its beauty. 

Isabel took the picture in her hand, and looked at 
it a long time. “ It’s lovely, father,” she sighed, 
“ it’s certainly lovely. But you know we don’t all 
look like Greek goddesses, strange as it may seem. 
Perhaps ” — she pinched the professor’s ear ro- 


A Talk with Father 89 

guishly, “ it’s because we haven’t Greek gods for 
fathers.” 

“ You have the best of me there,” said Professor 
Carleton, laughing and putting the picture back on 
his desk; “but I don’t think any young girl would 
look the worse for having her hair done in that way.” 

u Probably not,” Isabel conceded. “ It is ever 
so much prettier than the queer knobs and puffs that 
some of the girls wear. Why, at Molly’s tea the 
other day, there was a sorority girl telling about how 
her roommate wore her false curls to class — not 
her own, you know, but the other girl’s, and when the 
other girl (the one that was telling it) got up, she 
couldn’t find her curls, and she had to go to class 
without them; and right at the door of ‘Sunny’ 
Dyer’s class she met her roommate with the curls on, 
looking as pleased as Punch; and the girl that the 
curls belonged to was mad for a minute, but then 
they both burst out laughing, and they giggled all 
through class, and Professor Dyer kept making sar- 
castic remarks about girls that only came to college 
to have a good time — ” 

“ My dear, your pronouns are terribly mixed — 
as much mixed as the curls, I should say. And 
really, the young woman who was wearing the curls 
must have looked exceedingly strange, if her hair 
were of a different colour — ” 

“ But, goosey, she wouldn’t have worn the curls 
if they had been a different colour from her own 
hair! She wouldn’t be as silly as thatT 

“ Somehow, I am never surprised at any sort of 


90 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


silliness,” sighed the professor. “ But what was I 
saying? Oh, yes! And some of the girls paint 
their faces, too.” 

“Oh, not paint — it’s only Celia that does that. 
The girls just powder their faces a little — to take 
the shine off.” 

“ Powder a little ! I sometimes think they’ve 
spilled the powder box on their noses. Young girls 
don’t need any cosmetics. It’s painting the lily when 
they use things of that sort.” 

“ More poppy than lily, in some cases,” laughed 
Isabel. “ But I admit that some girls do go a little 
too far.” 

“ Indeed they do. And they scream and giggle 
in the halls — and they chew 1 gum!” His tone 
made Isabel jump. 

“Gracious, father! how you scared me! Hon- 
estly, I don’t think there are very many who do 
that.” 

Professor Carleton turned about in his chair and 
looked up at his daughter, his grey eyes flashing 
through his glasses. “ Isabel,” he said, “ if I ever 
know of your chewing gum in public — ” 

Isabel put her finger on his lips, and shook his 
shoulders reprovingly. “Hush, father,” she said; 
“ what do you suppose I have a mother for? She’s 
told me all about those things.” 

The professor settled back in his chair. “ Well, 
when I see those girls,” he apologised, “ I wonder 
who their fathers and mothers are ; and then I won- 
der whether perhaps your mother and I have failed 


A Talk with Father 


9 1 

in some respect.” He sighed. “ I want you to be 
the best possible sort of woman, my dear.” 

“ I’ll try to be, father,” said Isabel softly. 

She sat silently, smoothing her father’s hair, which 
was growing grey at the temples and thin at the 
back. After a while he said ruefully, “ You won’t 
come in to see me again, if I scold and harangue like 
this.” 

“ Oh, yes, I will. I love you even when you are 
cross.” They were silent again for a while. u You 
know I’m finishing the high school this year,” said 
Isabel at last. “ Graduation is a sort of beginning 
of things, isn’t it? Life gets a lot more complicated 
after that. But goodness knows it seems compli- 
cated enough, even in the high school.” 

“ Well, living is not a simple business, no matter 
where it’s done,” said the professor, holding his 
daughter’s hand very close. “ But you’ll surely 
make something good out of it, my dear.” 

“ I’d be pretty ungrateful to you and mother if 
I didn’t,” replied Isabel soberly. 

“ We’ve always hoped we could send you abroad 
for a year between high school and college,” Pro- 
fessor Carleton went on. “ I want you to learn 
French well, and get a little German or Italian, and 
gather some ideas about art, and some general cul- 
ture, you know. Now is the time for you to acquire 
those things — they come so much harder when you 
try to get them later. But we can’t afford to send 
you abroad now. Things seem to cost so much. 


92 


Isabel Carletons Year 


Your mother is a Titaness at managing, but she can’t 
evolve something out of nothing.” 

“ Well, don’t think of it, father,” said Isabel. 
“ If I can’t go, I can’t. I’m sure I shall be happy 
enough right here in Jefferson. Of course, I’d love 
to see the beautiful clothes and laces in Paris, and 
the black-eyed beggar children in Rome, and the big 
London ‘ Bobbies ’ ; and of course I do want to learn 
French well, but what’s the use of fussing about the 
impossible? ” 

“ We won’t, then,” said Professor Carleton. 
“You’ll get a good deal out of your first college 
year — and perhaps we can afford to have a tutor 
come in during the summer to give you a really good 
start in your French conversation.” 

“ That would be fine, father. But now let’s talk 
about something else. What am I going to do in 
life?” 

“Do, Isabel?” The professor set his glasses 
straight and looked up at the girl on the arm of his 
chair. 

“ Yes. What is my business going to be? ” 

“ Business ! Bless me ! Must you have a busi- 
ness r 

“ Well, I don’t mean selling real estate or can- 
ning peas. But I want to earn my own living as 
soon as I’m able to. You and mother have enough 
to look after, and you ought to save something — 
more than you do, anyway.” 

“ You want to earn your own living, eh? ” 


A Talk with Father 


93 


44 Yes, of course I do.” 

“ But do you have to think about that now? ” 

44 I think I ought to be planning.” 

44 But perhaps you will marry. I hope — yes, I 
may say I really hope — that you will.” 

“Perhaps nobody will want me; and perhaps I 
shan’t find anybody that I want. There are plenty 
of women that aren’t married.” 

“ Yes, yes, and some very fine women, too. But 
all the same, I hope you will marry and have a home 
and children of your own.” 

44 Even so, I can’t assume that I’m going to.” 

44 1 don’t see why not.” 

44 1 do. But listen, father: I think I’d like to 
go on the stage.” 

44 Dear me ! On the stage ! Oh, but, really, Isa- 
bel — ” Father looked bewildered. 

44 Or else I’d like to write novels. When I see 
you writing away at your book, I’m so proud of you ! 
And it makes me wild to write, too.” 

44 But my book isn’t a novel.” Professor Carle- 
ton was almost shocked. 

44 N-no; but I almost wish it were, popsy. Well, 
anyway, I want to do something great.” 

44 So do we all, I’m afraid, Puss. Nobody is 
content to be obscure.” 

44 It must be lovely to be famous — to have re- 
porters coming to interview you about your favourite 
colour, and what you think of suffrage, and whether 
Dickens was a humourist or not; and then to have the 


94 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


papers print what you eat for breakfast, and how 
many automobiles you own, and all that sort of 
thing.” 

“ I don’t believe that’s quite all there is to the 
novel-writing business. I suspect that one has to do 
more than interview reporters, and tell what one eats 
for breakfast.” 

“ Oh, well, I suppose so ; but it must be easy just to 
sit down and write about the people you see. Every- 
body’s so interesting, you know, and everybody’s a 
little queer.” 

“ I hope you’ll find it easy,” said Professor Carle- 
ton with a sigh, as he looked at the scratched and 
scored and much-corrected manuscript in front of 
him. “ Most people don’t. I advise you to think 
a long time before you make writing your business. 
You may have to come back and be supported by 
poor old father, after all ! ” 

Isabel laughed, and rumpled the staid professor’s 
hair till he looked very odd and dashing. “ Old 
wet-blanket!” she cried. “You’ll repent ‘them 
crool words ’ when you see me bringing out a novel 
that sells a million a year.” 

“ I certainly shall,” answered the professor. 
“ But I think that will be quite a while yet.” 

“ Perhaps — a year or two,” responded Isabel de- 
murely. “ And I may have to teach for a while, in 
between, to keep the wolf away. But now read me 
the Farie Queene, father, before I go and leave you 
in peace.” 


A Talk with Father 


95 


Professor Carleton, smoothing his rumpled hair 
with both hands, said resignedly, “ Get me the book, 
then, Plague-o’-my-Life.” 

Isabel brought the book, and settled herself on a 
foot-stool, while her father opened the book at the 
passage about Britomart, the warlike maid. He 
read the long rolling stanzas in a ringing voice that 
held his young listener absorbed through half a 
dozen pages. Her hands were tightly clasped and 
her eyes wide with emotion when he laid down the 
book. 

“ How insignificant one feels,” she said, “ with his 
little fountain pen and his little pad of paper and his 
silly little ideas, when he reads the work of a great 
poet like that! It seems hardly worth while for an 
ordinary person to try to write at all, does it? ” 

“ No, it doesn’t. But then, each one must fill his 
place in the world as best he can.” 

“Not in bed yet, Lady-bird?” said Mrs. Carle- 
ton’s voice at the door. 

“ I’m just going, mother,” answered Isabel rising 
with a yawn. “ I didn’t realise how sleepy I was. 
And I’ve worn poor Fazzy to a frazzle.” 

Mrs. Carleton came in, wearing a trailing blue 
dressing-gown, and looking very young and attrac- 
tive with a bright colour in her cheeks, and her hair 
in a braid down her back. “ Discussing the affairs 
of the universe, I suppose?” she said blithely. 
“ Run along now, and get your beauty-sleep.” 

“ She looks as if she’d had hers, doesn’t she, fa- 
ther?” cried Isabel, kissing her mother’s cheek. 


g6 Isabel Carletoris Year 

“ Now I’m going to bed and dream about all the 
wise things father has said to me, and all the fool- 
ish ones I’ve said to him. And oh ! how glad I am 
that I have just exactly the father and mother that 
I needed the most, and not anybody else’s ! ” 

“ Many thanks for the compliment,” said Pro- 
fessor Carleton, taking up his pen. And after Isa- 
bel had gone, he and Mrs. Carleton sat a long time 
looking at each other and smiling and saying noth- 
ing. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE FRAT INFORMAL 

O NE afternoon Mrs. Carleton was coming out 
of the Public Library when she met Rodney 
Fox coming in. He stopped in the doorway, with 
lifted hat, his eyes glowing. “ Oh, Mrs. Carleton,” 
he said, “ I was going to telephone you. I want to 
ask you a favour.” 

“ What is it, Rodney? ” asked the lady, smiling 
into the boy’s frank eyes. 

“ Won’t you let Isabel go to our next frat in- 
formal? It’s coming in two weeks.” Rodney’s 
face was very eager. 

“ Why-y, I hardly know what to say — ” 

“ She hasn’t been at one of our stunts this year, 
you know,” the boy went on. “ It hasn’t been be- 
cause I haven’t asked her — ” 

“ I know; you’ve been very kind to think of her.” 
The boy’s face took on a queer look, as if he were 
saying to himself, “ Kind to think of her ! Jiminy 
crickets ! ” 

“ But you know how her father and I feel,” Mrs. 
Carleton continued. “ We want to keep her from 
getting grown-up before her time, and we think the 
fraternity houses are too — well, too sophisticated 
97 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


98 

for her. We want her to be just a nice, simple high- 
school girl this year, and not try to be young-lady-fied 
and frivolous.” 

Rodney nodded gravely. “ I know what you 
mean,” he said; “ and of course I know you’re right. 
I don’t want her to be sophisticated and frivolous, 
either. But it won’t hurt her to come just this once, 
will it? You know, our men are very well be- 
haved” — he laughed — “and of course we have 
plenty of chaperones.” 

“ It isn’t that. But I don’t like to take the edge 
off her college life by giving her college pleasures 
too early.” 

“ But won’t just a taste of them help her to un- 
derstand college life better when she gets to it? ” 

“ Perhaps so.” 

“ And you know, Mrs. Carleton,” Rodney said, 
speaking very rapidly, “ it’s hard for me, too. 
There isn’t any other girl that I want to ask, and the 
fellows don’t like to have us go stag — without a 
girl, I mean. I wish Isabel could go once in a 
while.” 

Mrs. Carleton smiled thoughtfully. “ I think 
she might — once.” Rodney’s face brightened. 
“ When is this next informal, did you say? ” 

“Two weeks from to-day — Friday. Shall I 
telephone Isabel that you say she may go? ” 

“ Yes, if you like,” said Mrs. Carleton, tucking 
her books more closely under her arm. 

“Thank you, more than I can say!” Rodney 
stood and watched her as she went down the steps 


The Frat Informal 99 

and across the street. He was smiling happily to 
himself. 

When Mrs. Carleton came home, after her er- 
rands were done, Isabel was waiting at the sitting- 
room window. She opened the door, and took her 
mother, books and parcels and all, into a wild em- 
brace, whirling her about in an ecstatic dance. 44 Oh, 
Mummy-Carl, ,, she cried, 44 Rodney telephoned me. 
Oh, I’m so glad! I’ve always wanted so much to 

44 I’m happy to have you go, this once. It’s two 
weeks to wait, you know, child.” 

44 What an eternity! But m-m-mh — I’m going 
— to the — fraternity — dance ! ” She whirled 
her mother about the hall again. 

Fanny came to the hall-door from the sitting- 
room. 44 Why, Isabel, you’re rumpling mother all 
up ! ” she called impatiently. 44 See ! her hat’s all on 
one side, and she looks like a lunatic. Poor 
muzzy! ” She rubbed her head against her moth- 
er’s sleeve. 44 What’s Isabel making such a fuss 
about, anyway? She’s always so excited over every 
little thing.” 

44 Something too lovely to tell,” said Isabel. 
44 Let’s keep it a secret a while, mother, because it’s 
such fun.” 

44 1 don’t believe you can keep it very long,” com- 
mented Fanny shrewdly; 44 you’ll just have to let it 
out in an hour or two. Come on upstairs and see 
those new pictures of you and Molly that I took rhe 
other day. I’ve just had them developed.” 


IOO 


Isabel Carletons Year 


They were two very long weeks that followed. 
Celia caught cold, and spent a fretful day on the 
sofa; the Century Club met at the Carletons’, and 
were duly fed and sped; father went out of town to 
give a lecture, and came back safely; mother and 
father were invited out for dinner twice, and they 
entertained the Lenners and the Mitchells for din- 
ner; Isabel went to a church supper, and to the mov- 
ing-picture theatre with Rodney, and to a Senior tea 
at Lois Tucker’s, and to an illustrated lecture on 
Spanish Art, at the University, and was invited to 
Amy Ellsworth’s for dinner, and to Fraulein Ewald’s 
for lunch. And then of course there was plenty of 
school and studying. It was a very gay and busy 
fortnight, but it dragged a little in spite of every- 
thing. Toward the end of it, Grandmother Stuart 
came in from Dalton to stay for a few days. She 
was brisk and lively, with very white hair and very 
keen brown eyes that were sharp and kindly at the 
same time. 

Isabel often said, “ Grandmother is so understand- 
ing that you can tell her anything, and she never 
thinks you’re a nuisance, no matter how much you 
bother.” 

Of course Isabel had to relate to Grandmother all 
the events that had taken place since the family gath- 
ering at Christmas. And of course the “ frat in- 
formal ” was not long in creeping into the conversa- 
tion. 

Isabel was to wear her best embroidered muslin 
to the dance. “ White is the only thing so young a 


The Frat Informal ioi 

girl should wear to such a party,” her mother had 
said decidedly. 

“ I ought to have a new sash,” said Isabel, “ but 
maybe I can make the old one do. I’ll press it very 
nicely, and perk up the bow a little.” 

Grandmother was sitting reading, with her spec- 
tacles very far down on her nose. “ Did you say 
something about a sash, Isabel?” she asked. 

“ Yes, grandma, I was saying that I needed a new 
one for the fraternity party. My old green one 
looks pretty shabby, but I think I can spruce it up.” 

“ If you had a new one, what colour would you 
get?” 

“ Why, I think I’d get pink this time — just a 
lovely coral colour, like my ring.” Isabel held up 
the pearl and coral ring that had come after so many 
trials and disappointments. 

Grandma looked thoughtful. “ I think a nice 
fresh sash would be very desirable, little girl,” she 
said, as she fingered the ribbon that had grown a 
trifle limp and creased. “ This one will do for sec- 
ond best, but you want to look very spick and span 
for this party. Now you go down and get just the 
kind that you want, and I’ll pay for it.” 

“ Oh, how lovely! I was wishing and wishing 
that I might have one, but I couldn’t afford it, and I 
hated to ask mother.” 

“ Get a very, very nice one, and if you would 
rather, have it made up at the store, so that it will 
be very perky and fetching.” 

“ I’ll go right down this minute ! ” cried Isabel 


102 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


joyfully. “ The stores don’t close till half-past six. 
Oh, I’m so happy! ” And she danced away, after 
giving grandmother a hasty hug. 

Just at dinner-time she came back, with the sash 
done up in white tissue paper. She took it out with 
careful fingers, and held it up — a dainty and very 
“ Frenchy ” arrangement of ribbon, in the delicate 
pink of the pink coral, between rose and salmon. 
“Isn’t it too exquisite, grandma?” said Isabel, 
beaming. Her grey eyes were alight with pleasure. 

“ Come up to my room,” said grandmother mys- 
teriously. “ I have something up there that may in- 
terest you.” 

Upstairs in her room, she took a leather case out 
of the top drawer of the bureau. “ I usually bring 
this along, you know,” she said, “ because your 
grandfather is so careless about leaving everything 
open when I’m gone.” 

She opened the case, which was full of folded tis- 
sue papers, and out of the bottom she drew another 
paper. Isabel bent over it with breathless suspense. 
Unfolded, it showed a necklace of carved pink coral, 
and a beautiful pendant of carved roses set in gold 
filagree, with a sprinkling of pearls. 

The girl gave a suppressed shriek of wonder and 
delight. “Where did you get it, grammy? It 
looks awfully quaint and old, and so refined .” 

“ This belonged to my mother when she was a 
girl — you were named after her, and after your 
Aunt Isabel who died.” Grandmother spoke softly. 
And then she added, “ This is really a very lovely 


103 


The Frat Informal 

and valuable old piece. I’m going to let you wear 
it to your party, if you will be careful of it. Would 
you like to? ” 

“ Would I?” Isabel could scarcely speak for 
happiness. “ Oh, grammy, you know how I love 
pretty things. I’m mad over them. You don’t 
think I’m silly to love them, do you?” 

“ Not in the least, dear. I want you to love them, 
and to have them, too, whenever you can without 
being vain or selfish. Now put this on, and see how 
you like it.” 

“ I adore it,” cried Isabel lifting the necklace with 
caressing fingers, and clasping it around her neck. 

“ I’ll tie it on with a bit of pink ribbon, the night 
of the party,” said grandmother, “ so that nothing 
can happen to it.” 

“ It’s the last touch to my good fortune,” said Isa- 
bel, looking dreamily into the glass, where the pink 
and gold were shining below a flushed face and a 
halo of bright hair. 

The party itself was like some swift exhilarating 
vision. After the prolonged task of getting dressed, 
there came the lurking terror of meeting new people 
and of trying to do the correct thing among new con- 
ditions. The East Indian boy at the door of the 
fraternity house seemed like one of the dark servi- 
tors in the Arabian Nights, but the maid in the dress- 
ing room was more reassuring, with her white cap, 
her deft hands, and her friendly smile. The young 
men’s rooms, lighted and with open doors down the 
long halls, showed fascinating glimpses of banners, 


104 Isabel Carletoris Year 

pennants, steins, posters, oars, rapiers, photographs, 
and silver trophies of successes on the track and in 
the field. Isabel could have stood for hours look- 
ing at all these things; but the older sister of one of 
the men — she must have been fully twenty-five — 
took her gently by the arm and led her to the top of 
the stairway, where Rodney was waiting. 

The music had begun, and the crowd of girls was 
beginning to pour down the stairs — girls in delicate 
pink and blue and corn-coloured gowns, and tulle 
scarves and satin slippers. Their coiffures were 
high and elaborate, and many of them wore huge 
bunches of flowers. They were all chattering and 
laughing, and Isabel was so flustered, as well as so 
proud and happy, that she scarcely knew what she 
was doing. 

The first waltz, with Rodney, was so easy that she 
began to get back her self-control. The big folding 
doors were open between the rooms, and Rodney 
knew just where all the turns and sharp corners came. 

After the waltz, Rodney began to bring up “ the 
fellows ” — very fresh-faced young persons, in dark 
suits (not real “ dress-suits,” since the occasion was 
supposed to be informal). Isabel found, too, that 
most of them were as easy to talk to as Rodney — 
a little more slangy and a little less serious, perhaps 
— but very much the same. And she found that 
“ What a splendid house you have ! ” or “ How 
many men do you have in your fraternity?” was 
enough to start any one of them off on an enthusi- 
astic account of the building of the new house, and 


The Frat Informal 105 

the admirable qualities of all the fellows. Talking 
to these strange young men was not half so hard as 
she had expected, and dancing with them was the 
simplest thing in the world. 

u Ah ! here she is ! ” cried a voice behind her, and 
she turned, to see Fred Delafield and Evelyn Taylor 
coming toward her with outstretched hands. 

“ So lovely to see you again,” said Evelyn, whose 
gentle attractiveness was increased by the lavender 
chiffon gown that she was wearing. “ We’ve spoken 
of you a good many times since we saw you out at 
Middleton, haven’t we, Fred?” She took Isabel’s 
left hand and held it, while Delafield gave her right 
a hearty shake. 

“ We sure have,” he said, in his slow deep voice. 
“ Haven’t forgotten your dancing. You’re with 
Rod, aren’t you? Can’t see why the deuce he hasn’t 
brought you before.” 

Isabel was shy and confused, but she managed to 
stammer, “ Good reason — -my mother never would 
let me come before.” 

“She thinks we’re a hard lot, does she? Well, 
we’ll have to be so well-behaved to-night that she’ll 
be willing you shall come again.” 

“ You’ll be in college next year, won’t you? ” said 
Evelyn. “ I want the girls in my sorority to know 
you. It’s the Gamma Deltas, you know. Come 
and have dinner with us next Wednesday night.” 

u I’d love to,” cried Isabel, losing her shyness. 
“ Father says that your sorority is splendid.” 

“ That’s where your father shows his good sense,” 


106 Isabel Carletoris Year 

put in Delafield. “ They’re some girls, believe 
me ! ” He looked down at Evelyn with a kind of 
protecting pride, and a tender humour that de- 
stroyed the flippancy of his slang. “You can’t do 
better than to tie up to them.” 

Isabel had not thought much about “ tying up ” 
to any sorority, though she hoped that she would 
be asked to join one when she got into college. It 
gave her a thrill of pleasure to think that perhaps 
Evelyn was “ rushing ” her. She could not think of 
the right thing to say, but Evelyn whispered, “ How 
sweet you look, and what a darling necklace ! ” and 
just then one of the “ fellows ” came up to claim her 
for a dance. 

“ Save one for me ! ” called Delafield, as she was 
whirled away, radiant with excitement and the throb 
of the music, and the joy that she always felt in 
dancing. 

After that dance was over, Rodney came to her, 
saying, “ I’m going to bring up Sothern — he’s a 
real live professor. He was just asking who you 
were.” 

“ Goodness ! ” cried Isabel, in a flutter, “ I am 
sure I shan’t be able to think of anything to say to 
him. Father’s kind of professors I’m not afraid of 
at all, but the fraternity kind — ” she shivered in 
mock apprehension that was not all “ put on.” 

Rodney turned, to present a slender young man 
with a moustache and eye-glasses. He seemed very 
young to be a professor, and he was not “ father’s 
kind,” in the least. 


107 


The Frat Informal 

“ May I have a dance? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, the third one after this, if you like,” an- 
swered Isabel, trying to assume an easy air. There 
were no programmes on this particular evening. 

u Delighted. Confusing not having any pro- 
grammes, isn’t it? Are you Professor Carleton’s 
daughter? ” 

“ Yes. Do you know father? ” 

“Only a little, for I’m in another department; 
science; chemistry, in fact.” 

“ You must be brave,” said Isabel, dashing ahead, 
determined not to be dull and solemn. “ The chem- 
istry people are always blowing things up and burn- 
ing their eyebrows off.” 

Sothern looked amused. “ I have never burned 
mine off but once, and then I was laid up for a month. 
It was in Paris, and a Catholic sister came and took 
care of me.” 

“ Oh, you’ve been in Paris! ” 

“ Yes, for two years.” 

“ Wasn’t it wonderful? ” 

Sothern smiled at her enthusiasm. “ Well, yes, 
it was all right,” he said, “ but I got hungry for some 
old-fashioned American cooking, and I never could 
see any sense in their talking so much with their 
hands.” 

“ Oh, but the galleries, and the shops, and the 
pretty clothes ! ” 

“ Well, I went to the galleries on rainy Sundays 
when I couldn’t think of anything else to do; and I 
didn’t have any money to spend in the shops; and 


108 Isabel Carletons Year 

naturally I couldn’t wear the pretty clothes, even if 
I’d known them when I saw them.” 

Isabel laughed. “ I’m mad over Paris,” she said, 
flushing. “ It seems as if I can’t live till I get there. 
I’m ashamed to confess it — I’m supposed to want 
to learn French — but I think it’s the clothes that 
I’m craziest about.” 

“ You’d certainly do credit to the clothes,” said 
the man bluntly, and Isabel felt herself growing red; 
she was not used to compliments, and she had an un- 
comfortable feeling that she had invited this one. 
“ You can wear all the clear colours wonderfully,” 
he added, in an off-hand tone. “ You’ll let me tell 
you what a delightful colour you have in your sash 
and in the corals. There’s only one thing that I 
care about that borders on the artistic, and that’s 
colour — I think I learned it in the laboratory. 
That pink is perfect for you; and there’s another 
that would be, too — a fresh clear green; do you 
know the colour of chrysoprase? ” 

“ Oh, don’t I? ” cried Isabel, glad to get the con- 
versation away from personalities. “ I almost had 
a chrysoprase ring once.” She launched merrily 
into the story of the ring, concealing the nervousness 
that she felt at feeling the man’s eyes fixed upon her 
in open admiration. She had a sense of being very 
young and foolish and self-conscious, and she was 
glad when Fred Delafleld came up for his dance. 

She had happy moments snatched here and there 
in conversation with Evelyn Taylor, and with some 
of the girls from her sorority — bright, laughing 


log 


The Frat Informal 

creatures, with an undercurrent of seriousness and 
kindliness in their natures. One, a dreamy-looking 
damsel, named Iola Fleming, Isabel fell quite in love 
wirh, and hung about adoringly whenever she had a 
chance. 

“ Evelyn tells me you’re coming to our house for 
dinner,” said Iola with a smile. “ You must slip 
away to my room before you go home, on Wednes- 
day, and let me read some poetry to you. I hope 
you love poetry.” 

u Oh, I do,” said Isabel eagerly. She would have 
said that she loved Sanskrit or anthropology, if Iola 
had suggested either of them. 

“ Maybe I’ll read you some of my own, then,” re- 
sponded Iola mysteriously. “ But I never show it 
to anyone that I’m not sure of.” 

“ You may be sure of me,” answered Isabel, won- 
dering vaguely just what it was that Iola wanted to 
be “ sure ” about. 

“ Yes, I think I may,” murmured the poetess, with 
a long look into Isabel’s eyes. And then she sur- 
rendered herself to a tall “ temperamental ” appear- 
ing youth with long “ molasses-candy-coloured ” 
hair, as Isabel termed it; she herself, floating off on 
Rodney’s arm, was beginning to wonder whether 
they were going to have anything substantial for sup- 
per, or only ice-cream. 

It turned out to be chicken salad, and sandwiches, 
and coffee, with ice-cream and cake at the last. 

She ate supper with Rodney and Fred Delafield 
and Evelyn Taylor, and found herself talking and 


IIO 


Isabel Carletons Year 


laughing with them as gaily as she had done at the 
hotel-table at Middleton. 

“ It seems somehow as if we had always been 
friends, doesn’t it? ” said Evelyn, eating a sandwich, 
and looking about at the other three. 

“ I hope we always shall be,” said Isabel simply. 

“ Nothing to prevent,” said Rodney, balancing his 
coffee-cup on his knees (they were having a “ sit- 
about ” supper), “unless some of you joggle me 
while I’m trying to get away with this coffee. That 
would part us forever.” 

“ Too bad we’re all so confoundedly busy,” said 
Fred, “ or we might see more of each other. But 
then we’ll all be in college next year, and we’ll stick 
together like burdock-burrs.” He smiled lazily at 
Isabel. “ Eh, Rod?” he added, taking a huge bite 
out of a brown-bread sandwich. 

“ Betcherlife,” said Rodney, finishing his coffee. 
“ Only two more dances before we go home. The 
last one’s with me, Isabel.” 

“ And the next to the last is with me,” added 
Delafield. 

“ The same one that I have with Evelyn,” said 
Rodney. 

They paired off as the music began. Isabel and 
Delafield circled the rooms almost silently. “ I be- 
lieve you’re made of thistle-down,” Fred said once, 
as they glided through the hall. “ I shall call you 
Anna Pavlowa.” 

“ Don’t. It would embarrass me horribly,” Isa- 
bel answered. And then she said impulsively, “ You 


Ill 


The Frat Informal 

know, I was frightened to death to come here among 
all these strange people. I’m not used to that sort 
of thing, and I was sure I’d feel terribly out of it.” 

“ But you haven’t, have you? ” 

“ Oh, no ! I’ve felt wonderfully — beautifully 
— in it!” 

“ And you’ve had a good time at our party? ” 

“ The happiest sort of time. Everybody has been 
so nice to me.” 

“ I’d punch their heads if they hadn’t been.” 

“ Well, their heads are safe.” 

“ You must come again.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Isabel wistfully. “ Moth- 
er’s very particular, and doesn’t let me do everything 
I want to.” 

“ She’s a wise mother,” answered Fred soberly. 
“ May I come and see her? ” 

“Yes, do,” said Isabel. “Mother is — well, I 
can’t say it. You’ll have to come and see.” 

“ My mother’s dead,” said Delafield softly. 

“ Oh ! ” gasped Isabel, and they said nothing more 
till the music stopped. 

After the last dance, and the good-byes, and the 
shaking hands with the chaperones, Isabel and Rod- 
ney walked home briskly through the fresh March 
night, with a crust of ice crunching under foot, and 
the stars thick and sparkling overhead. 

“ I’m mighty glad you could come,” said Rodney. 

“ I’ve had the loveliest time of my life,” said Isa- 
bel. “ There hasn’t been anything to mar it. No 
matter how many parties I go to, all the rest of my 


1 1 2 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


life, I shall remember the perfectness of this.” The 
necklace, and the compliments, and the new friends, 
and the gaiety of it all had blended into a happiness 
that had already become a memory. 

“ There’ll be a lot more like it,” answered Rod- 
ney. “ Think of next year.” 

“ I am thinking of it,” said Isabel, stopping at the 
steps of the Carleton home, where a light was burn- 
ing for her in the hall. 

And neither she nor Rodney guessed that they 
were planning next year as it was not to be. 


CHAPTER VIII 


ISABEL THE HARDHEARTED 
ES, mother, it is her fault,” said Isabel shrilly 



from the head of the stairs. “ She shouldn’t 


have taken it, — and I’ll never forgive her — 
never ! ” 

Then she sat down on the top step, and buried 
her face in her kimono, with the dragons sprawling 
over it, and cried. 

“ Isabel, don’t speak in that tone in my house,” 
said Mrs. Carleton sternly. But she went up the 
stairs and sat down beside the sobbing girl, smooth- 
ing the sea-green shoulders and the bright gold hair. 
“ All this trouble over a ring!” she sighed. “It 
isn’t such a terrible tragedy, my dear.” 

“ But it was my ring, and I loved it because it was 
so pretty, and because father brought it to me from 
Chicago. I’d had it such a little while ! And any- 
way, she had no right to put it on without my saying 
that she could.” 

“ But she didn’t think you’d care so much — and 
of course she didn’t expect to lose it. She feels 
badly enough, you may be sure.” 

“ Feeling badly doesn’t bring back the ring,” mur- 
mured Isabel, wiping her eyes. 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


114 

“ We’ll all take another look for it, and perhaps 
it will turn up.” 

“ No, it won’t. Fanny looked and looked before 
she told me she’d lost it, and I’ve hunted everywhere. 
It’s gone, and I know I’ll never see it again.” Isa- 
bel’s weeping broke out afresh. 

“ Well, then, we’ll see what we can do about get- 
ting another.” 

“You know we can’t afford it; and anyway, I 
don’t want another. It wouldn’t be that one.” 

“ Perhaps it would be just like it.” 

“ There isn’t another like it. It was hand-made, 
you know, and the corals and pearls were put in in 
such an odd way. That was the beauty of it, 
mother, you know very well. It was because it was 
different that I loved it. No other ring will do.” 

Mrs. Carleton sighed again, this time with some 
impatience. “ I never knew you to be so unreason- 
able, Isabel. What has come over you? ” 

Isabel did not answer, but sat wiping her eyes, and 
trying to coil up her hair, which had fallen over her 
shoulders. 

Mrs. Carleton, in despair at the unrelenting atti- 
tude of her eldest daughter, went to Fanny’s room, 
and peeped in. The room was in the wildest dis- 
order. The rugs were in a pile in the corner, the 
bed had been pulled apart, and the contents of bu- 
reau drawers were scattered on the floor. Fanny’s 
search for the lost ring had stopped at nothing. In 
the midst of the bed-clothes, a heaving heap, with 
two solid tan shoes sticking out of it, was all that 


Isabel the Hardhearted 115 

could be seen of the culprit. Mrs. Carleton sat 
down on the bed, and felt among the covers for the 
girl’s hand. 

“ Fanny, dear, don’t worry any more. We’ll find 
it yet, or if we don’t we’ll try to get Isabel another. 
You may give some of your allowance toward it, if 
you want to.” 

Fanny raised her tousled black head from the hol- 
low where she had burrowed. “ She won’t be satis- 
fied with another. It’s dreadful to have her so — 
so — 1 unforgiving, mother. I’ve told her how sorry 
I am—” 

“ I know, dear. It isn’t like Isabel at all. You 
know she is usually as kind and generous as can be.” 

“ Yes, she is,” quavered Fanny. “ She gave me 
her silk muffler when I lost mine, you remember; 
and two dollars for the birthday sleigh-ride, and that 
linen collar that she embroidered, and ever so many 
things. But that doesn’t help much now.” 

“ It ought to help. You must do what you can 
to set things right, and then wait till she’s herself 
again.” 

“ But she won’t speak to me,” wailed Fanny. 
“ She acts as if I had done something terrible. Of 
course, I know I ought not to have worn her ring, 
but she might forgive me, anyway.” 

“ It’s very strange,” said Mrs. Carleton, with a 
worried look coming between her eyes. “ But we 
mustn’t say anything to father about all this, for I 
can’t have him bothered while he is writing his book. 
He won’t be at home for dinner to-night — he’s 


1 1 6 Isabel Carletons Year 

going to the University Club, and I’m very glad he 
doesn’t have to see his daughters in such a state as 
this.” 

At dinner, Isabel sat with red eyes and hard lips, 
eating mechanically and saying nothing. To her 
mother’s cheerful remarks and Celia’s chatter she 
answered the merest monosyllables. Fanny, also 
red-eyed, but with quivering lips, was struggling to 
keep herself in hand. There was boiled chicken for 
dinner, with gravy and biscuits, and spiced peaches, 
— viands to console almost any misery when one is 
thirteen. 

“ Please pass me the biscuits,” said Fanny in as 
natural a tone as she could muster. 

Isabel lifted the plate and handed it to Fanny with 
a distant air, like that which a very proud duchess 
might assume toward a kitchen-knave. Overpow- 
ered by such haughty demeanour, poor Fanny, in 
a passion of remorse and grief, dropped the plate 
upon the table, and rushed from the room in a deluge 
of tears. The plate, breaking into bits, demolished 
also the one upon which Fanny had received her gen- 
erous helping, so that a cascade of biscuits, gravy* 
mashed potato, and peaches bounded and dribbled 
over the table-cloth and down upon the floor. 

Isabel sat without moving while Mrs. Carleton 
rang for Olga to clear away the mess, and spread a 
napkin over the signs of the wreck. 

“ What a house ! ” groaned the distracted mother, 
ladling gravy for a very round-eyed Celia. “ I’m 
sure I can never live through another day like this.” 


Isabel the Hardhearted 117 

She made no further attempts to talk to Isabel, who, 
without waiting for her dessert, left the table and 
shut herself in her room. 

The next morning was Saturday, a day on which 
the girls usually did their allotted tasks about the 
house with the liveliest merriment and peals of 
laughter. But on this forenoon, each girl swept and 
dusted her room and made her bed without a word. 
The silence of the house was nothing short of dismal. 
When Isabel accidentally met Fanny on the stairs, 
she passed her sister with unseeing eyes, as if the 
younger girl were an invisible spirit of whom she had 
no knowledge. 

“ I won’t be easy and sentimental, and say I for- 
give her when I don’t,” Isabel was saying to herself; 
“ I just can’t bear losing my ring, and it’s of no use 
to pretend I don’t mind. When I have so little, and 
love nice things so much — ” She choked, and 
dashed into her room, where she spent an hour in 
straightening her bureau drawers. Some very bitter 
tears dripped down among the skirts and camisoles, 
and the collars and vari-coloured ribbons. The 
girls at school had admired the ring so much, while 
they exclaimed over its delicate prettiness, that Isa- 
bel had more than once been a centre of a friendly 
but half-envious group who passed the bit of crafts- 
manship about and examined it in detail. Molly 
Ramsay’s cousin from Winona had even said, “ Par- 
don me, but I couldn’t help noticing — what an 
unusual ring you are wearing. Did you get it 
abroad? ” 


1 1 8 Isabel Garleton’s Year 

It was not these triumphs alone that made Isabel 
grieve for the ring; she really had come to love it for 
itself, and the pleasure that the colour and the work- 
manship could give her. It seemed as if the loss of 
it were too painful to be borne. “ She had no right 
to touch it,” she repeated miserably, to justify her 
own harshness. “ She can’t expect me to forgive 
her. She should have left it where she found it.” 

Fanny had found the ring on the glass shelf above 
the basin in the bath-room, and had slipped it on, 
secretly rejoicing in the excuse for wearing it, and 
intending to return it to its owner in a few minutes. 
And then Anna Paul had telephoned her to come 
over for dinner, and she had hurried to change her 
blouse, — and in the middle of dinner at Anna’s, she 
had discovered that she no longer had the ring. She 
had come home in frightened haste, and had searched 
her room and the whole upper story of the house be- 
fore she had broken the news to Isabel, who in the 
meantime had missed the ring and was having a 
quiet rummage on her own account. 

Saturday was a gloomy day enough. After their 
work was done, the girls sat in their rooms with 
the doors closed, and tried to sew or study. Early 
in the afternoon Fanny, after a whispered consulta- 
tion with her mother, went out with her coat and hat 
on. Isabel went down to the kitchen to press her 
chiffon scarf. She heard Fanny come back, and de- 
tected a rustling of paper in the hall. 

When Isabel went up to her room a little later, 


Isabel the Hardhearted 119 

she found a bunch of red roses on her desk, in a 
vase of which she was particularly fond. “ Roses 
don’t make up for rings,” she said stonily; and tak- 
ing the vase in a firm cold hand, she set the flowers 
upon Fanny’s table, where the child found them 
flaunting their unrelenting message when she came 
home from her music lesson at half-past four. 
Sprinkling them with tears, Fanny threw the roses 
out of her bedroom window, where they were soon 
frostbitten and withered. 

Dinner was a far-from-lively affair. Father was 
thinking about his book and did not have much to say. 
Fanny and Isabel spoke frequently enough to their 
mother and Celia, so that their silence was not con- 
spicuous to their father, but they did not address 
each other. Celia had been at a party during the 
afternoon and had much to tell, and her chatter 
saved thesaeal from being quite unendurable. 

That evening Isabel sat at her desk wrestling with 
a hard passage of German drama. She was more 
miserable, it seemed to her, than she had ever been 
before in her life; but she kept doggedly on, hunting 
for words in the dictionary, and mumbling to herself 
a very confused translation. She was thinking, 
away back in her brain, of how Fanny’s eyes had 
looked at dinner — so hurt, and so full of humilia- 
tion and distress. “ Well, she shouldn’t have med- 
dled with the ring, then,” said Isabel for the ten- 
thousandth time, to give justification to her own 
behaviour. 


120 


Isabel Garletoris Year 


Suddenly she was aware that some one was stand- 
ing beside her desk. She did not look up, for out of 
the corner of her eye she had caught a glimpse of 
Fanny’s plaid skirts and tan shoes. 

“ The — terrors — of the — grim — scaffold,” 
translated Isabel, fluttering the leaves of her book. 

The form beside her made a motion of approach, 
and then stood still, waiting. Isabel kept her eyes 
on her book, but she could not see what she was 
reading. 

Then a lean little hand was thrust before her, and 
on the pages of Marta Stuart dropped a small rat- 
tling mass of trinkets: the carnelian beads that 
Aunt Felicia had brought from California, and the 
silver bracelet that Anna Paul had given Fanny at 
Christmas, and the garnet pin that had been mother’s 
when she was a girl. Isabel stared at the page 
where the group of ornaments had fallen. The 
hand went into a pocket, and then deposited some- 
thing more on the open book — the tatting hand- 
kerchief that grandmother had tatted with her own 
fingers, the ivory edelweiss that Uncle Howard had 
bought in Switzerland, the silver spoon with the 
Carleton crest on it: one by one, all of Fanny’s trea- 
sures were heaped on the sacrificial pile. 

“ Won’t you take ’em all, Isabel? ” stammered a 
humble voice. “I — I’d like to give ’em to you, if 
you’ll only not be mad. Maybe they’ll make up for 
the — the ring. I can’t bear to have you act as if 
I were a — an insect.” 



“ Won’t you take ’em all, Isabel ? ” stammered a humble 
voice. “ I’d like to give ’em to you, if you’ll only not be 
mad.” Page 120. 












Isabel the Hardhearted 121 

Isabel looked up at the pleading brown eyes, and 
the wretched face in its frame of straight black hair. 
Then she looked down at the things that lay upon 
the desk, — articles that Fanny loved as she herself 
had loved the pearl and coral ring. For a moment 
she thought she should burst out crying at the sight; 
but she only sat staring at her sister in a kind of daze. 
Then all at once she broke into a gale of laughter 
— Isabel’s own merry laugh. 

Fanny flushed, thinking for a breath of time that 
her gifts were scorned as all unworthy to be substi- 
tuted for the ring; but she knew better when Isabel 
rose up and kissed her on the cheek. 

“ I couldn’t take your pretty things, Angel Child,” 
said Isabel, with a catch in her voice. u Put them 
back where they belong, and don’t be a funny little 
goose.” She was still laughing in hysterical relief. 

“ Oh, Isabel! ” gasped Fanny, “ aren’t you mad 
any more — aren’t you, honestly? ” 

“ I’m not any more mad than a rabbit,” Isabel 
replied; u honest to goodness, I’m not. Don’t ever 
speak of that ring to me again. I lived quite a while 
without it, and now I guess I can live without it for 
another year or two. I know I’ve been a perfect 
fiend. I can’t see what in the world was the matter 
with me.” 

Fanny ran to the hall. “ Mother, mother! ” she 
called. “ Isabel isn’t mad any more. She’s just 
like herself again.” 

Mother came upstairs, and Celia, too, in her night- 


122 


Isabel Carletons Year 


gown, with Bobo in her arms. And all of them — 
except Bobo — had a good laugh together, without 
any mention of corals and pearls. 

Two days afterward, at breakfast, Professor 
Carleton suddenly put his hand into his waistcoat 
pocket. u Dear me,” he said regretfully; “ I forgot 
something very important.” The family stared at 
him over their soft-boiled eggs. “ When I was go- 
ing to a committee meeting the other day,” he went 
on, “ I found this in the dead leaves beside the walk. 
I thought it belonged to one of you girls, but I was 
in too much of a hurry to go back.” 

In his thumb and finger he held up the pearl and 
coral ring. 

Isabel stretched out her hand. “ Yes, father, it’s 
mine,” she said quietly. “ It was lost a few days 
ago.” There was no use in explaining to him, she 
thought. 

Fanny opened her mouth to scream, but Isabel 
squeezed her hand under the table, and she relapsed 
into silence. Mother gave the girls a happy look, 
and whispered to Celia not to speak. 

Father, oblivious of the excitement around the 
table, had taken up the morning paper, and was look- 
ing over the University news. “ It was a good thing 
there wasn’t a storm,” he said absently, still scan- 
ning the headlines. 

“ There was! ” groaned Isabel, sotto voce. And 
then she added in a low tone, “ There’s been fuss 
enough about the thing. Let’s eliminate it from our 


Isabel the Hardhearted 123 

conversation;” with which high-flown remark, she 
slipped the lost treasure on her finger, and helped 
herself to another piece of hot toast. 


CHAPTER IX 


AMONG THE ARBUTUS BLOSSOMS 

I T was a rainy night, late in April, and the fire was 
blazing on the hearth in the dining-room. 
Father was in his study, working on his book, Fanny 
was out at a dancing-school party, and Celia was in 
bed. Mrs. Carleton, Isabel, and Rodney Fox were 
concerned with the making of a rarebit over the chaf- 
ing dish. They were talking about camping trips, 
and the out-doors, and the coming-on of spring. 

“ There’s only one place in all the country round 
where the arbutus grows,” said Rodney, who was 
stirring the rarebit while Isabel arranged the 
crackers on the plates. “ You know where that is, 
don’t you, Isabel? It’s up at Morton’s Mills, about 
twenty miles from here.” 

“ I’ve never been there,” answered Isabel. “ You 
might turn off the flame, now, Rodney — but the 
Lenners went there last year, and they got ever so 
much — two or three baskets full. I don’t think 
there’s a lovelier flower on earth.” 

“ Even a tiny bit is a joy,” said Mrs. Carleton, 
from the little table beside the fireplace, where she 
was crocheting. “ It’s a miracle of fragrance.” 

“ It would be fun if we could go this year and get 
some, wouldn’t it?” said Rodney, watching Isabel 
124 


Among the Arbutus Blossoms I2JJ 

while she ladled out the rarebit, and poured it over 
the crackers. 

“ I wonder if we could,” meditated Isabel. 
“ There, Rod, that’s for mother.” 

“ This rain will bring out the flowers,” said Mrs. 
Carleton, taking the plate that Rodney handed her. 
“Thank you. You certainly have had good luck 
this time with your rarebit, honey.” 

u It’s not luck, but skill,” laughed the young cook. 
“ This is the way I learned it in Domestic Science. 
Gracious! if any rain will bring out the flowers, this 
ought to. Did you ever see such a downpour?” 
The wind whirled the rain against the glass, which 
rattled as if it were being pelted with drops of lead. 
The gurgling of the water in the gutters came dis- 
tinctly from the street. 

“ I don’t think Fanny ought to be out,” said Mrs. 
Carleton looking worried. “ I’m glad Mrs. Paul 
said she’d bring the girls home in a cab. Yes, this 
will be just the time for the arbutus.” 

“ Sometimes you find it right under the snow,” 
said Rodney eagerly. 

“ Not really under it! ” cried Isabel. 

“ Well, there’ll be crusts of snow in the moss un- 
der the trees, and you lift them up — and there it 
is ! ” 

Isabel clasped her hands. “ Mv! how I’d like to 
see it growing ! ” 

“ You can,” answered Rodney. “ Why don’t we 
go up to Morton’s Mills on Saturday, and get some? 
An arbutus party — wouldn’t that be spiffy?” 


126 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


“Perfectly ga-rand!” Isabel burst out. 
“ There’s no reason why we couldn’t.” 

“ We will,” said Rodney. “ I’ll get it up. It’s 
Thursday, isn’t it? We can have it all planned to- 
morrow; and Saturday morning, if it isn’t raining, 
we’ll go, — just a few of us; a lot are too many.” 

“ Don’t you think it would be fine, mother? ” 

“ Yes, I do. We don’t get out into the woods as 
much as we ought to, at this time of year.” 

“Will you chaperon us, Mrs. Carleton?” asked 
Rodney. 

“ I’d be delighted.” And she laughed. “ I was 
dreadfully afraid I wasn’t going to be invited.” 

“ Who’ll we have? ” 

“ Molly, of course.” 

“ And Eric.” 

“And Lois and Harry?” 

“Yes; but don’t you think that’s enough?” said 
Rodney. 

“ Don’t you want to ask Mr. Delafield and Eve- 
lyn Taylor? ” 

“ No, I don’t think so. I think we have just 
enough as it is. Do you especially want them? ” 

“ No, but I didn’t know that you’d be satisfied 
with an all-high-school crowd.” 

“ Depends upon who’s in it. Is there anyone you 
want to ask, Mrs. Carleton? ” 

“ No — except Fanny. I think she’d like to go.” 

“ Oh, yes, of course, we’ll take Fanny. Mother’ll 
put up the lunch for us,” added Rodney. 


Among the Arbutus Blossoms 12 7 

44 Oh, no! Isabel and I will provide the lunch,” 
said Mrs. Carleton. 

“Well, anyway, mother’ll want to send some- 
thing.” 

44 Then let it be one of her delicious chocolate 
cakes,” said Isabel. 44 Nobody makes such good 
chocolate cakes as your mother does.” 

44 She’ll do it. And I’ll bring oranges.” 

44 And we’ll make sandwiches — ” 

They chattered on, making eager preparations. 
The last of the rarebit was gone, and they sat closer 
around the fire, talking of the pine woods, and the 
delights of picnics and forest rambles. 

Saturday morning was soft, warm, and bright. 
The rain had dried away, and the air had all the 
freshness of spring, with a touch of heat that was 
very grateful after the long cold months of a Mid- 
dle Western winter. 

At the station the party met, with baskets and 
boxes of lunch, cameras, field-glasses, and thermos- 
bottles. The girls wore short skirts, and had middy 
blouses under their coats. The boys were neg- 
ligently clad in old clothes and canvas puttees. 

The trip of three quarters of an hour carried 
them through rolling hills, where squares of fresh 
earth showed the spring ploughing, and the grass was 
green on sunny knolls. Greyish-coloured sheep, 
with young lambs wabbling by their sides were graz- 
ing in the fields, never raising their heads as the cars 
spun by. Crows flew across the pastures. At the 


128 


Isabel Garletoris Year 


farm houses a great deal seemed to be going on, and 
children, freed from school, were “ teetering,” 
climbing trees, and feeding broods of tiny chickens. 

After a while, the hills grew higher, and foaming 
streams gushed over the rocks. Against the sky, 
pine trees began to show darkly, — scattered at first, 
and then more closely massed. 

“ Morton’s Mills! ” called the brakeman. 

The party hurried out, eager to see the place. 
The station was a mere platform on the edge of the 
woods, and the receding train seemed to be carrying 
away all connection with the outer world. 

“ Isn’t it too romantic! ” exclaimed Molly Ram- 
say. “ Look at the old mill! ” 

The ruins of a saw-mill stood against a group of 
pines, where layers of needles lay under the low blue- 
green branches. There was a battered “ race,” and 
through the broken floor of the mill they could see 
the water-wheel, and an array of rusty machinery. 

Beyond the grove was the forest of oak and maple 
interspersed with pines. The branches, high and 
lacy, showed a faint haze of pinkish green from the 
opening buds. A corduroy road led into the woods., 

“ What a day! ” u Aren’t you glad we came? ” 
“Why haven’t we been here before?” “ Some 
place — eh?” These were the remarks that 
floated into the April air. 

The boys hid the baskets away in a corner of the 
mill, where birds fluttered off their nests in the 
rafters, and chipmunks scuttled out of sight among 
the piles of logs rotting on the floor. 


Among the Arbutus Blossoms 129 

Then the party all marched into the woods sing- 
ing Where the River Shannon Flows . 

“ Keep within call,” shouted Rodney. “ We 
don’t want to go home and leave anyone here with 
the chipmunks.” 

44 Might be something bigger than chipmunks, 
too,” supplemented Harry Kilpatrick. 

“Are there bears?” faltered Lois Tucker, her 
eyes getting round. 

44 Such animals have been known to exist,” Rod- 
ney replied. 44 And they’re not all in the Zoo, 
either.” 

44 It’s a good thing we have manly protectors,” 
laughed Mrs. Carleton. 

44 I’ll stay near you, mother,” said Fanny. 

44 She doesn’t think much of the protectors,” mur- 
mured Rodney. 

They plunged deeper into the woods, separating 
into pairs or groups. 

44 How shall we know where the arbutus is?” 
asked Isabel of Rodney, who had kept close beside 
her. 

44 Ah, we’ll know,” said the boy enigmatically. 
44 Wait and see.” 

44 I want to look up all the time at the sky, and 
the branches with the green and red buds,” said 
Isabel. 

44 No way to find arbutus, but a very good way of 
getting a bumped nose,” answered Rodney. 44 It’s 
pretty rough walking, and you’ll have to look down 
or let me lead you.” 


130 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


“ Well, I’ll watch where I’m going.” 

They walked on in silence among the boles of the 
oaks and maples, or brushing through the groups of 
pines. Occasionally they heard the flicker of a 
bird’s wings, or the scolding of a squirrel, angry at 
this human invasion. Their feet rustled and padded 
through half-dried leaves or soggy patches of pine 
needles. 

Isabel kept her eyes ranging among the mosses. 
All at once she fell on her knees with a cry of 
pleasure. “ Oh, you darlings ! ” she exclaimed. 

Peeping out from the dark green and brown moss 
was an edge of pink — the most delicate shell-pink 
imaginable — a hint of what was hidden. Hur- 
riedly Isabel lifted the moss, and underneath it was 
a larger mass of pink blossoms, fresh, untouched, 
the star-shaped calyxes and round carmine buds shin- 
ing among the rusty green of the leaves and roots. 

“Did you ever see anything so exquisite?” she 
gasped. 

“ They’re the real thing,” said Rodney briefly. 
“ No dye and cotton about those.” He stooped 
over, to break the roots that clung hard to the 
ground, as if they resented being disturbed. u I 
knew you’d be crazy over ’em.” His cheeks were 
glowing. And while they were both reaching for 
the blossoms and pulling away the moss, he and Isa- 
bel found their hands touching and their heads close 
together. A strange feeling of self-consciousness 
came over them. 

Isabel drew back. “ I am crazy over them,” she 


Among the Arbutus Blossoms 131 

said. She held a handful of the flowers to her cheek. 
The air was heavy with the scent. 44 Aren’t they 
like beautiful little fairy children?” she murmured, 
with a smile. She was still kneeling in the moss. 

44 1 knew you would love them,” said Rodney. 
44 It was on your account that I wanted to come. 
The other girls don’t understand such things — not 
as you do.” He put his hand on hers and held it, 
and looking up into his eyes, she saw an expression 
there that she had never seen before. Somehow 
he seemed a different Rodney, — older, stronger, 
finer, full of gentle but vigorous purpose, moved 
with tender feeling, not as a boy is, but as a grown 
man may be. They looked at each other, not shyly, 
nor yet boldly, but with a sweet friendliness that they 
did not entirely understand. For several minutes 
they stayed thus, kneeling on the ground and look- 
ing at each other. Then Isabel drew her hand away 
and rose. Rodney plucked another handful of the 
flowers, and got up from the moss. 

44 There must be plenty more about here,” he said 
vaguely, looking about among the leaves. Isabel’s 
eyes did not meet his now, and she busied herself in 
rearranging the blossoms that she held. 

44 Whoo-hoo! ” called Eric Thomas, not far away 
through the bushes. 44 Everybody all right?” 

44 1 should say!” answered Rodney with an en- 
thusiasm that made Isabel blush. 

44 Do you find any, Isabel? ” called Mrs. Carleton. 

44 Yes, yes! It’s lovely,” answered the girl 
warmly. 44 It’s wonderful! ” 


132 


Isabel Carletons Year 


“ We’ve found bushels,” shouted Fanny, “ and 
haven’t seen a bear yet.” 

“ Time enough,” consoled Eric from somewhere 
beyond a clump of pines. 

“ Oh-h ! ” shrieked Lois, “ there’s something up 
in a tree — ugh! a queer thing. Look! It isn’t 
big enough for a bear, but goodness knows what 
it is.” 

They all came rustling and crackling through the 
underbrush, the girls hesitatingly, the boys excitedly. 

On a high limb of an oak tree was a dark object 
crouched down as if asleep or terrified. 

“What can it be?” said Molly, backing away. 
“ Do you think it will jump down on us? ” 

“ Aw, I know what it is,” said Harry, rather 
proud of his knowledge. “ It’s a porcupine. I’ve 
seen them on my uncle’s timber-land in Bayfield 
County.” 

“ Are they fierce? ” queried Lois timidly. 

“ About as fierce as a last year’s bird’s nest,” re- 
sponded Harry. 

“But they shoot their quills, don’t they?” said 
Fanny, keeping at a safe distance. “ Look out, or 
you’ll be a human pin-cushion.” 

“ Not likely,” said Eric. “ Here, let’s all take a 
look at it through the field-glasses.” They gazed 
at the stupid rough creature through the glasses, and 
turned away somewhat disappointed that it was not 
more exciting. 

“ A bear would have been more interesting,” com- 
mented Isabel, “ and not any more dangerous.” 


Among the Arbutus Blossoms 133 

They began to gather arbutus again, getting more 
and more skilful in detecting it in its secluded nooks. 
Every bunch that was disclosed seemed more waxy 
and fragrant than the bunch before. Isabel and 
Rodney, keeping together a good deal of the time, 
did not say much, nor look in each other’s faces, but 
they were happy without expressing their happiness, 
and absorbed in their own thoughts. 

“Time for lunch!” called Mrs. Carleton, when 
the sun had mounted to the centre of the sky. They 
made their way back to the mill, and found the bas- 
kets where they had left them. Mrs. Carleton 
spread a white cloth on the ground, and everybody 
gathered around her while she took out the sand- 
wiches, a dish of salad, and then cookies, cake, 
oranges, and olives. Paper cups were filled with 
hot coffee from the thermos-bottles, and soon the 
lunch began to disappear, among exclamations of 
satisfaction and harmless jokes and snatches of popu- 
lar songs. Mrs. Fox’s chocolate cake was cut, with 
three cheers for Rodney, and the complimentary 
chorus, 

“ He’s a high-rolling, rollicking boy,” 

sung with unctuous emphasis, and a circle of fingers 
pointed in his direction. Rodney acknowledged the 
attention by a dancing-school bow, and then rendered 
himself speechless by putting three olives into his 
mouth at once. 

“ It’s too lovely for anything,” sighed Molly, who, 
with her red Tam o’ Shanter on one side, and her 


134 Isabel Carleton’s Year 

black hair blown about her face, was eating a huge 
piece of chocolate cake. 

“ What’s too lovely — the cake? ” said Eric teas- 
ingly. 

“ Yes, it’s hyper-glorious,” answered Molly with 
her mouth full. “ But I meant the day and the trip 
and everything.” 

“ Perhaps you mean the company you’re in,” 
added Rodney. 

“ That couldn’t be better,” said Molly, looking 
around beatifically at the group. Molly had the 
gift of strong affections, and those that she loved, 
she loved much. “ Somehow, you never know how 
fond you are of people until you get out like this, 
away from all the things that seem to clutter up 
your everyday living. Isn’t that so, Peaches-and- 
Cream?” She turned suddenly to Isabel, who, 
holding her piece of cake poised before her, was 
looking dreamily off across the river. 

Isabel started guiltily, and dropped the cake into 
her lap. The colour grew deeper in her cheeks. 
“ Yes, of course it’s true if you say so, Molly,” she 
answered rather peevishly, “ but you don’t need to 
give anyone such a jolt. I thought you were just 
talking to the squirrels.” 

Everybody laughed at her confusion, and she 
picked the cake crumbs out of her lap, and called 
for another piece. Her mother looked at her 
keenly over the picnic feast, and wondered what was 
the matter with Isabel. 

“ Just a few more bunches ! ” cried Eric, jumping 


Among the Arbutus Blossoms 135 

up, when everybody had eaten all that was possible. 
“ I know dozens of people who'll think themselves 
blighted for life if we don't give them any.” 

“ Me, too,” said Lois Tucker, beginning to clear 
away the remains of the lunch. “ We’ll put what 
we’ve gathered into the baskets, and then try to find 
a little more.” 

They filled the lunch-baskets with the sweet-smell- 
ing clusters that they had heaped upon the ground, 
and then sprinkled them with water from the creek. 

Fanny, lured by the ripple of the stream, ventured 
out upon some stepping-stones, in spite of the pro- 
tests of her mother. One foot slipped, and she 
found herself over her shoe-top in the icy water. 
She dripped and spattered her way to shore, much 
crestfallen, and submitted to being led away to the 
mill, where she had to sit with one foot curled under 
her, while her stocking hung out in the sun to 
dry. 

“ Oh, dear, I always get into a mess of some kind, 
if there’s any to get into,” she said ruefully, as her 
mother wiped the sopping shoe with the towel that 
had been around the sandwiches. “ How do you 
ever stand me? ” She followed the others wistfully 
with her eyes as they disappeared in the woods. 
Mrs. Carleton, however, was not averse to resting 
at the door of the old mill, and “simmering” as 
she said, in the loveliness of the April noon-time. 

After a while, the young people all came back, 
and they sat about on logs, waiting for the half-past- 
three train. 


136 Isabel Carletoris Year 

“ It’s been a perfect day,” said Isabel with a sigh 
of contentment. 

“ It sure has,” echoed Rodney. 

Isabel seemed to hear something in his voice that 
was not intended for the others. She was glad that 
she sat behind them, for she knew that she was 
flushing again under the sunburn, and she did not 
want to meet anybody’s eyes, not even Rodney’s. 
She felt vaguely in her heart that the boy could 
never be quite the same free and easy chum that he 
had always been. There was something different 
between them. 

She was very silent on the way home, thinking of 
odd, undefined, disturbing things. She had never 
understood before that there was so much beneath 
the surface of life. It looked so smooth and com- 
monplace, and then all at once it opened and showed 
glimpses of undreamed-of possibilities. It had all 
seemed so simple until lately, and now — 

“ I suppose that’s what it means to grow up,” 
she said to herself, — “ finding so many more things 
right under your nose than you ever thought were 
there.” And then she looked over at her mother, 
who, with her arm around Fanny, was gazing 
serenely through the car-window at the landscape 
scudding by. “ How complicated her life is,” medi- 
tated Isabel in a kind of slow surprise. “ I never 
thought of it before, — but with the house, and the 
outside interests, and father, and us girls, — and all 
of us depending on her for everything that makes 
us happy, she has to be a dozen people in one. 


Among the Arbutus Blossoms 137 

Why, it’s a terrible and wonderful thing to be a 
woman ! ” 

She was so absorbed in the new ideas that had 
come to her in that twenty-mile ride, that she woke 
as from a trance when the train pulled into the sta- 
tion at Jefferson. 


* 


CHAPTER X 


THE TRIALS OF AN AUTHOR 

I SABEL leaned her head on her hand, and 
thought. She was labouring, as she had done 
for a number of evenings now, on her graduation 
essay and her valedictory speech. The essay was on 
The IV ork of William Morris , rather too ambitious 
a subject for a high-school girl, however bright she 
might be in her classes. Isabel had had a craze for 
Morris, and had begged to be allowed to choose a 
subject relating to his activities in poetry and art. 
Now she heartily wished she had tried something 
simpler. All the spring, she had been reading and 
taking notes, and several times she had talked over 
the essay with her English teacher; but the actual 
task of writing must now be performed. Mr. Stacy 
had issued a command that all essays should be fin- 
ished at a certain date, and that date had now come 
appallingly near. 

To-night she was struggling with the half-finished 
essay, which was a mass of papers of all sizes and 
colours, full of notes, scrawls, passages cut up with 
corrections, and other passages copied out neatly. 
She was trying to arrange her material in some 
regular and emphatic order. u Oh, dear!” she 
groaned, “what shall I say next? Ought this idea 
138 


139 


The Trials of an Author 

to come in now, or shall I save it for the last? I’ve 
just got to do something with it, or I shall go mad.” 

She was one of five, chosen out of the large class, 
to give an essay at Commencement, and had ac- 
cepted the honour with the feeling that writing some- 
thing or other would not be very much of an effort. 
The essays and stories that she had written for her 
composition classes had always gone rather easily 
and brought good marks. But now she felt baffled 
and irritated, quite out of conceit with the whole 
matter. 

“ It’s the worst struggle I ever had,” she said to 
herself; “ if writing a book is anything like this, no 
books for me ! I think I’d rather go out as a ‘ plain 
seamstress.’ ” 

She toiled on, fitting parts together, rewriting 
passages, interlining, and revising. Presently she 
heard the clock strike the half-hour. It was half- 
past eleven. Her head was heavy, and her eyes 
were very unwilling to stay open. 

“ I can’t do any more to-night,” she murmured, 
u but I do feel that I’ve accomplished something, and 
can finish the thing in a day or two.” 

Sleepily, she ran through the sheaf of papers, 
grouping the sheets together, and laying the differ- 
ent sorts of material on a chair that stood beside 
her, and on the shelf of her desk. “ It certainly 
looks messy,” she admitted, beginning to take off 
her collar and her belt, “ but I know exactly what 
each of those heaps of hen-scratching means. In the 
morning, I’ll put them away more carefully.” 


140 Isabel Garletoris Year 

While she undressed, she thought over the ar- 
rangement that she had decided on, and it seemed 
as good as she could make it. It was with a sigh 
of relief as well as of weariness that she turned off 
the light, opened her window, and tumbled into bed. 

The next morning she found that she had over- 
slept. Her mother had called her as usual, but she 
had gone to sleep again. She had barely time to 
eat her breakfast and rush to school. 

“ I haven’t time to do my room, mother,” she 
called as she was putting on her wraps, “ but I’ll do 
it this noon. It won’t hurt it to air, you know.” 

“Very well,” answered Mrs. Carleton; “we’ll 
leave it.” 

But when Isabel came home at noon, the room 
was in perfect order. The bed was made, the desk 
closed; all scattered articles were neatly put away, 
and the shades half-lowered. On the desk stood a 
glass vase holding two yellow daffodils. 

“Oh, did you straighten my room, mother?” 
asked Isabel from the bath-room where she was 
scrubbing the morning’s grime from her hands. 

“ No,” replied Mrs. Carleton from the hall. 
“ Olga did it. She said she thought you had enough 
to do, and she hurried her kitchen work to attend 
to your room before you came home.” 

“ How good of her! ” said Isabel. “ Olga cer- 
tainly is a jewel, and no mistake.” 

She strolled back into her room, polishing her 
nails with a bit of chamois, and feeling relieved that 
she had “ time to breathe,” before going to school. 


The Trials of an Author 141! 

Then the thought struck her that she had better as- 
sure herself of the safety of her manuscript. She 
opened the lid of her desk. Everything was in ap- 
ple-pie order; pens and pencils were laid out in a 
tray, pigeon-holes stiffly arranged. Where was the 
mass of white and blue and yellow paper that con- 
tained the precious essay? 

With her heart in her mouth, Isabel opened one 
drawer after another, though she knew that each one 
was crammed. No manuscript rewarded her search. 
Frantically, she went through the dresser drawers, 
the shelves of the clothes-closet, the shirt-waist box. 
Nothing. 

Pale and wide-eyed, she ran downstairs, and stood 
at the sitting-room door. Through the door into 
the dining-room she could see the table set for lunch- 
eon, and Olga moving about with a tray and glasses. 
Mrs. Carleton looked up from the lace that she was 
sewing on Fanny’s new muslin guimpe . “ What’s 

the matter, child? What has happened?” she 
cried. 

“ My essay! My graduation essay,” the girl said 
in a smothered tone. “ Do you know where it 
is?” 

“ Why, no. Isn’t it in your room? ” 

“ I left it in a muddle on a chair last night. I was 
too tired to put it away. Olga — ? ” She could not 
say what was in her thought. 

With an alarmed face, Mrs. Carleton started up, 
putting her work down on the table. “It isn’t — 
destroyed, is it? ” 


142 


Isabel Garletoris Year 


“ I’m afraid so, — oh, I’m dreadfully afraid that 
it is! Will you ask Olga? I daren’t.” 

She held her hands tightly together, and looked 
out of the window at the rows of purple irises along 
the walk, trying not to be afraid. 

When Mrs. Carleton came back, her face told the 
story. 

“ She burned it, mother? ” gasped Isabel. 

“ Yes, dear. She said it looked ‘ so scrappy and 
good-for-not’inY and she didn’t think it was any- 
thing that counted.” 

“ Oh, mother!” 

“ She wanted your room to look nice when you 
came home. And she got the daffodils for you, her- 
self, when she went to market.” 

“ Oh-h ! Burned! And I worked so hard — 
so hard! Nobody knows what a time I’ve had. 
Oh, my lovely essay! ” wailed the girl, with quiver- 
ing lips. 

Mrs. Carleton drew the bright head to her own 
shoulder. “ There ! there ! never mind, darling,” 
she said. “ Don’t cry.” 

“ I’m not going to cry,” moaned Isabel. “ What 
good would that do? I’m beyond crying.” She 
took her mother’s hand, and held it hard. 

“ Olga means so well,” said Mrs. Carleton miser- 
ably. “ Poor Olga ! She ought to have known 
better, but she didn’t.” 

“ Oh, but, Mummy, anybody would know — ” 

“ Not Olga. Essays don’t mean anything to her, 
you know.” 


The Trials of an Author 143 

u She ought to have asked! ” 

“ She thought she was doing right.” 

“ Did you tell her what the papers were — now, 
I mean ? ” 

u No, I just asked her if she had burned up some 
papers that were on a chair and on your desk. I 
didn’t scold her — I couldn’t. Do you think I 
should? ” 

“ Dear me, no. Of course not. What’s the use 
of hurting her feelings?” Isabel drew a long 
breath. “ Well, there’s nothing for it, but to get 
busy and write the terrible thing over again. Per- 
haps Mr. Stacy will give me an extra day or 
two.” 

“ I’m so sorry — ” 

u Don’t worry, Old-Lady-who-lived-in-a-Shoe. 
It’ll be all right.” Isabel was bravely trying to 
smile. 

Olga, who had been in the kitchen, now came 
timidly to the sitting-room door. With her round 
heavy face, light hair severely combed back, and 
stocky form in neat blue gingham, she was the pic- 
ture of kind and stupid faithfulness. “ Loonch is 
ready, Mississ Carleton,” she said, looking anx- 
iously at the two women standing inside the door. 
“ Miss Isabel,” she added dubiously, “ I do your 
room this morning so nice as I could — ” 

“ Thank you, Olga,” said Isabel cordially. u It 
was awfully good of you. And thank you for the 
flowers.” 

Olga smiled happily. “ I yoost saw ’em, and I 


144 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


know you like ’em, and so I buy soom. They look 
yoost like you, Miss Isabel.” 

“ Well, thank you for the compliment, too.” 

Olga still stood hesitating, and began to fumble at 
the edge of her apron. “ Your mother ask about 
soom papers. I burned a few. Is it soom harm? ” 

“ No, Olga, it’s all right,” answered Isabel as 
cheerfully as she could. “ It’s really all right. 
Don’t worry.” 

The maid went away looking consoled if doubtful. 
And just then Professor Carleton came in from the 
University, and Fanny and Celia slid down the ban- 
isters with wild whoops, racing to see which one 
would be first at the table. In the general confusion 
Isabel was able to compose herself, and to go to her 
place as if nothing had happened. But her heart 
was like lead, and her brain was a whirling mass of 
questions, in which “ What shall I do? ” was upper- 
most. 

She walked to school alone after luncheon, and as 
she went, she turned the matter of the essay over in 
her mind. “ Why should it happen to me? }) she 
said to herself. “ Nobody else has such troubles, 
I’m very sure. It seems as if I’m the mark for all 
the 1 slings and arrows of outrageous fortunes.’ ” 
And then she added, somewhat ashamed, “ Well, I 
shan’t go around complaining about it, anyway. I 
don’t care to have anybody pity me.” 

She did not mention the burned essay to a soul, not 
even when Molly Ramsay said to her, “ Are you 
going to have your essay finished on time? ” 


145 


The Trials of an Author 

Xi Oh, I think so,” Isabel answered in an off-hand 
way. “ Did you notice the lovely new gowns in 
Keeley and Neckermann’s window? Let’s walk 
around that way after school.” 

“ Writing a graduation essay doesn’t worry you 
much, does it?” said Molly admiringly. 

“Why should I worry?” Isabel replied with a 
grimace that simple-hearted Molly took for an ex- 
pression of lofty superiority to all the trials of 
would-be authors. 

u I’m sure you’ll be a great novelist some day,” 
said Molly, who had the deepest faith in Isabel’s 
gifts; “ and I certainly shall be proud to say that I 
used to go to school with you, and eat pea-nut brit- 
tle out of the same paper bag! ” The girls were 
munching sweets in a corner of the cloak-room. 

“ More likely I’ll be doing plain sewing, and you’ll 
bring me your children’s rompers to make,” Isabel 
replied with a hint of bitterness in her usually gentle 
tones. 

When she got home from school after the stroll 
with Molly around Capitol Square, Isabel found the 
mahogany tea-table set out in her room, with the Can- 
ton cups and the thin old tea-spoons. “ Mummy- 
Carl is trying to console me ! ” she said to herself, 
“ and I won’t cry a tear and hurt her feelings.” 

Just then Mrs. Carleton entered the room, fol- 
lowed by Olga carrying a tray with the tea and hot 
buttered toast and marmalade. Celia and Bobo 
were trailing on behind. 

“ Oh, mother ! ” said Isabel with a sudden remem- 


Isabel Garletoris Year 


146 

brance, “ you were going to the reception for Frau 
Von Ende this afternoon! Did you stay away on 
my account? ” 

“ Why, I thought you might be feeling blue after 
your stroke of bad luck, and so I telephoned Mrs. 
Henderson that I couldn’t come, and I made father 
go without me. It won’t hurt me to stay away.” 

“Oh! oh! such a mother!” groaned Isabel. 
u But what a cosy tea we’ll have all by ourselves.” 
A little later, mixing “ cambric ” tea for Celia, she 
confessed, “ I’m afraid I should have cried a wee bit, 
if I hadn’t found this gaiety here to make me forget 
my catastrophe. Oh, let’s give Bobo some cream, 
Celia. See how the poor fellow is coaxing and pur- 
ring.” 

“ What are you going to do? ” asked Mrs. Carle- 
ton, helping herself to the orange marmalade; 
“ about the burned treasure, I mean.” 

“ Nothing, for a day or two,” Isabel responded. 
“ I have to think it over.” 

So on Thursday evening, she went calmly to the 
moving-pictures with Molly and Eric Thomas. And 
on Friday evening, Fred Delafield and Evelyn Tay- 
lor and Rodney Fox were over, and they all sang 
college songs, and then sat out on the steps, in the 
soft May air, and watched the new moon go down. 

“You’re a lady of leisure now that your essay 
is done, aren’t you?” said Rodney. “I suppose 
you’ve finished it, for Eric told me you were at the 
movies last night.” 

“ It does seem good not to have anything to do,” 


The Trials of an Author 14 7 

said Isabel, with an irony that was lost on the hilari- 
ous group. 

On Saturday morning, after breakfast, Isabel shut 
herself in her room with her fountain pen and plenty 
of paper. And then she opened the door a crack 
to call to Fanny, “ If I’m not down for lunch, will 
you bring me a hand-out, Angel Child? ” 

“Why?” answered Fanny. “Am I your serv- 
ant, Mrs. Astor-Vanderbilt? ” 

“ Well, I have some work to do. But don’t 
bring me anything if you don’t want to. Maybe 
Celia will.” 

u Don’t worry. I’ll bring you a tooth-pick and a 
glass of water, to save you from starvation,” Fanny 
conceded, and Isabel closed the door, which had a 
large Busy sign affixed to it. 

At noon she did not appear, and Fanny brought 
her a plate of cold meat and creamed potatoes. 

At three o’clock, Mrs. Carleton tapped at the 
door. “You’ll wear yourself out, child,” she said 
anxiously. “What are you doing, anyway?” 

Isabel opened the door. Her hair was in dis- 
order, and her face was flushed, and there were dark 
lines under her eyes. “ I’m composing,” she said 
tragically. “ Don’t disturb the Infant Genius.” 

“ Shall you have finished by five o’clock? ” asked 
Mrs. Carleton tranquilly. “ The Lenners want us 
to go for an automobile ride.” 

“ I should say! ” replied the girl. “ Me for the 
buzz-wagon! Nothing but slang will express my 
feelings.” 


148 Isabel Garletoris Year 

She was very silent all through the drive, but that, 
fact was hardly noticeable, since the Lenners always 
had plenty to say. Isabel went to bed early, too 
tired to keep her eyes open. 

The next morning she shut herself in her room 
again, and the family went off to church. At the 
dinner-table she laid before her father a sheaf of 
neatly written manuscript. “ There ! ” she said. 
“ Read that at your leisure, Mr. Professor.” 

“ What is it?” asked Professor Carleton, adjust- 
ing his glasses. “ Not the Great American Novel, 
I hope.” 

“ Not yet,” said Isabel. “ It’s a graduation es- 
say entitled The Work of William Morris , and a 
tacked-on valedictory.” 

“ Done, daughter? ” queried Mrs. Carleton, drop- 
ping the gravy spoon and spattering the clean table- 
cloth. 

“ Done,” answered Isabel with a flourishing ges- 
ture. 

Just then Olga came into the room, and Isabel 
stopped abruptly. “ You may go on whipping the 
cream, Olga,” said Mrs. Carleton, and the maid re- 
turned to the kitchen. 

“ Now I’m going to reveal the secret of my life,” 
Isabel went on. u Olga burned my graduation es- 
say, and I had to write another.” 

“Isabel! Not really!” said Fanny, who held 
graduation essays in the supremest awe. “ Why, I 
should think you’d have been crying your eyes out ! ” 

“ And you never said a word ! ” Professor Carle- 


The Trials of an Author 149 

ton exclaimed, taking off his glasses and staring 
across at Isabel. “ I didn’t suppose girls had any 
self-control when it came to matters of that sort.” 

“ What little I have, I’ve inherited from mother,” 
smiled the girl. And then she continued eagerly, 
“It was awfully queer — almost weird, you know. 
I had such a terrible struggle with the other one, 
and I just couldn’t seem to do anything with it. It 
almost drove me mad. And then, when I sat down 
and began to write this one, I didn’t have any trou- 
ble at all. Some of the time I felt as if I were a 
medium, or whatever you call it; the stuff just seemed 
to write itself, as if my arm was the only part of me 
that was working. Sometimes it didn’t go very fast, 
but all the time I knew what I wanted to say, and 
found a way to say it in.” 

“Is it as good as the other?” asked Professor 
Carleton doubtfully. 

“ Better,” said the young authoress, “ heaps bet- 
ter. I honestly think it will do.” 

“ It starts off well,” said the professor, glancing 
down the page. “ I’ll go over it with you after 
dinner.” 

“ I’m so hungry, I shall starve to death right here 
in my chair,” said Isabel. “ Do carve for us, fa- 
ther. The veal roast looks delicious.” 

“ It seems to me that a medium should have a 
very slender appetite,” said Professor Carleton, tak- 
ing up the carving knife. “ I think I’ll get you to 
write the rest of my book for me while I go trout-fish- 
ing and play golf,” he added, deftly slicing the meat. 


Isabel Carleton's Year 


150 

“ I’m afraid the spell is broken,” Isabel laughed; 
“ at least I’m so tired I’m in a state of collapse. 
But I’m very glad now that I didn’t go around whin- 
ing. This has been a lesson to me. You never 
know what you can do till you get right down and 
dig.” 

“ Preparation and concentration — those are the 
two things that get the results,” said father, serv- 
ing the mashed potato. 

“ I think Isabel is awfully smart,” piped Celia, 
who did not understand what the talk was all about, 
but felt called upon to make some remark. 

“ Only when she has to be,” corrected Big Sister, 
patting the little one’s hand. 

“ Wouldn’t it be awful to have a Genius in the 
family? ” said Fanny in a subdued tone. She looked 
at Isabel with real respect, and her usual teasing air 
had vanished. 

“We should worry!” drawled Isabel, making a* 
face at Fanny. “ Oh, do pass the gravy and the 
bread and the celery, and everything else. I’m so 
hungry I don’t know where I’m going to stay to- 
night.” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE FRENCHMAN 

M R. STACY expressed himself as well satisfied 
with Isabel’s essay. “ You must have spent 
a good deal of time on this,” he said, after he had 
read it through. 

“ Well, I did, first and last,” the girl replied, 
laughing a little. 

“ When it is shortened a trifle, it will be quite all 
right,” the principal went on. “ See Miss Wilson 
about cutting out a bit where you can, and then you 
may begin drilling. I want you to do especially well, 
since you’re the valedictorian.” 

For the next two weeks, Isabel was much occupied,' 
in learning the essay and the farewell speech, and 
in being drilled by the “ vocal expression ” teacher, 
so that she might make a successful appearance at the 
Commencement exercises. She was studying for the 
final examinations, too, and there were various ath- 
letic and social events that she must not on any ac- 
count miss. It seemed as if each day were three or 
four hours too short. 

“ But we must get in a picnic or two,” said Evelyn 
Taylor, “ before I go home, and Fred goes West 
again.” 


152 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


“ We certainly must,” agreed Isabel. And so 
there were hurried excursions, all the more delight- 
ful, perhaps, for being impromptu and very brief: 
an automobile trip to Pheasant Branch, a Sunday 
night supper on the bank of the Lake, a Saturday 
breakfast at Maple Bluff, and a canoe trip with a 
hasty “ snack ” at Picnic Point. It was all very sim- 
ple and friendly and delightful. 

Then, at home, came the incident of the French- 
man. 

Professor Carleton folded the letter and put his 
glasses into their case, as he sat down to the luncheon 
table. Olga was already bringing in the cream-of- 
celery soup. 

“ A letter from Cousin Eunice,” he said, looking 
over at Mrs. Carleton; she was passing the wafers to 
Celia, who had to be back at school early to “ prac- 
tise her piece.” 

“ Yes, I thought so when I saw the black border. 
Don’t eat so fast, Celia dear — there’s plenty of 
time.” 

“ At Naples,” the professor went on, beginning 
to eat his soup, “ she met a young Frenchman who 
was coming to the States. He wants a position. 
She thought I might be able to help him.” 

“ Is he coming to Jefferson? ” 

“ Yes, he’s coming on as soon as he can transact 
some business in New York.” 

“ I suppose we’ll have to invite him for dinner, 
and have frogs’ legs,” interpolated Fanny. 


The Frenchman 


153 

Celia looked up, shocked, from her last spoon- 
ful of soup. “Frogs’ legs! Oh, Fanny! Do 
Frenchmen eat the poor little things’ legs?” 

“ Yes, they fry them in butter by the dozen, don’t 
they, mother? I read it in a book.” 

“ That’s why a Frenchman is called Johnny Cra- 
paud,” spoke up Isabel, proud of her bit of informa- 
tion. 

“ It’s a very bad time for him to come,” contin- 
ued Professor Carleton, ignoring the interruption. 
“ The colleges will soon be closed — or at least the 
summer sessions are all arranged for.” 

“ Yes, but it gives him time to find a place for the 
fall,” said Mrs. Carleton, with a whispered admoni- 
tion to Celia. 

“ If he has good credentials, he may get into the 
department here. They haven’t filled that young 
Mallonnier’s place — or they hadn’t, the last time 
I inquired.” 

“ Perhaps, Arthur,” said Mrs. Carleton quickly, 
“ he might do for a tutor for Isabel during the sum- 
mer.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Isabel, laying down her fork and 
looking from her mother to her father. 

“ He might,” replied Professor Carleton. “ I 
want her to perfect herself in French, and get the 
best accent, which is hard enough to acquire even 
with a ‘ native ’ teacher. I don’t see why she 
mightn’t profit by the long vacation, instead of frit- 
tering it away.” 

“ Wouldn’t it be exciting to have a really French 


i54 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


tutor, right from France,” said Fanny. 44 All the 
girls would be perfectly emerald-green with envy.” 

Isabel flushed. 44 Doesn’t he speak any English 
at all, father? ” she asked. 

44 Will he parley-voo all the time? ” added Fanny. 

44 Cousin Eunice says that he speaks English very 
well.” 

44 Of course, we’ll have to wait till we see him,” 
said Mrs. Carleton thoughtfully. 44 And perhaps 
he won’t want to bother with pupils. No, Celia, you 
must eat your potato and meat. I can’t have you 
going to school hungry. And you must take a cooky 
in your bag, to eat at recess. Tell Olga to give you 
one before you go.” 

44 If he comes on quickly from New York, he ought 
to be here in a few days,” said the professor, glancing 
at the date of the letter, which lay beside his plate. 

In fact, it was only the next day, at five o’clock 
in the afternoon, that a young man, slender and dis- 
tinguished-looking, with an upturned black mous- 
tache, came to the door, presenting a letter of intro- 
duction from Cousin Eunice. Fanny and Isabel, 
who were upstairs, saw him from a front window, 
and were jumping up and down with excitement. 

44 He’s so romantic looking.” This from Fanny, 
who usually scorned romance. 44 I’m sure he’ll turn 
out to be a count in disguise.” She spoke in a stage 
whisper, though the caller was safe in the parlour. 

44 Or a gentleman burglar,” answered Isabel, 
craning her neck over the banister in spite of the fact 
that there was nothing to see. 


The Frenchman 


155 


“ Well, that’s just as interesting, and more so,” 
said Fanny. “It’s queer about these ‘furriners’; 
you can’t tell anything about them from the looks. 
Don’t you remember that Polish count that visited 
Professor Prokotschsky ? He had a snub nose and 
scraggly whiskers, and wore the funniest hats. 
There wasn’t the least scrap of romantic-ness about 
him.” 

“ This one has the newest-looking gloves,” said 
Isabel absently. She was thinking of all sorts of 
strange possibilities, with which gloves had nothing 
to do. “ Do you suppose he lives in a garret, like 
the Jeune Homme Pauvre ?” 

“ Oh, I do hope he’ll be your tutor,” cried Fanny. 
“ It will be so interesting. Maybe he’ll fall in love 
with you, Isabel.” 

u What nonsense ! ” answered the older girl, flush- 
ing scarlet, and taking up her crocheting which she 
had dropped at the advent of the caller. “ A little 
American snip like me wouldn’t count for anything, 
when he’s seen so many lovely French girls.” 

“ I’ll bet you’re just as good-looking as any of 
them,” protested Fanny loyally. “ Professor Len- 
ner was just telling mother yesterday — ” 

“ Oh, hush, Fanny! Don’t be silly! ” 

“ Well, I’ll tell you sometime what he said,” 
Fanny retorted. 

“ French girls are all pale and interesting,” med- 
itated Isabel, “with black hair — like yours, Angel 
Child — and the dreamiest black eyes.” And then 
she added briskly, “ I’ve got my Commencement 


156 Isabel Carleton’s Year 

essay to say over again. I always mix up that pas- 
sage beginning ‘Impatient with the ugliness that he 
saw on every side,’ because we cut something out 
of it after I began to learn it.” The two girls were 
in Isabel’s room, now, where the late sun was pour- 
ing in a strong yellow light. 

“ I’ll say it for you,” cried Fanny, scrambling to 
her feet and mounting the cretonne-covered shirt- 
waist box. And she began, in a shrill “ elocution- 
ary ” tone, throwing her arms about in stiff wild 
gestures, “ Im-pa-a-atient, with the ug-g-g-li-ness-s-s 
that he s-s-saw on ev-er-y s-s-side, he be-gan to ah-h-sk 
himself the ques-s-st-yuh-hun — ” 

“Oh, mercy, Fanny! Don’t,” begged Isabel. 
“You murder it so! Oh, stop! I’ll give you my 
Cluny lace collar if you’ll never do it again.” 

“ Will you, honestly? ” queried the orator, whirl- 
ing on one foot, on the shirt-waist box. 

“ Honour bright.” 

“ Well, I like the collar,” said Fanny slowly, “ but 
it’s such fun to tease you — I don’t know whether I 
can give that up or not.” Then she began again, 
“ Im-pa-hay-shunt at the uh-hug-li-nes-s-s — ” 

With a squeal, Isabel put her hands over her ears. 
“ I’ll never be able to say it right if you do that,” 
she wailed. “ It’s real lace, Fanny, and you know 
how nice it looks with your blue linen dress, and with 
the black velvet bow that mother gave you. You’d 
better take it.” 

Fanny stepped down from the box. “ It does 
give a nice finish to the dress,” she conceded, “ and 


The Frenchman 


157 


I never had a real lace collar. Hark! Somebody’s 
left the door open; they’re talking in French, aren’t 
they? Well, hand over the collar, humble victim 
of my power ! ” 

Isabel went to the second drawer of the dresser, 
and took out the folded lace collar. “ I was going 
to give it to you anyway,” she said, with a twinkle 
in her eyes. “ It needs mending in the back, where 
it’s been pinned down, and besides I’m tired of it. 
It’s too childish for me ! ” 

“Childish!” cried Fanny in vexation. “How 
mean you are, Isabella of Spain! You just want to 
spoil it for me. I don’t care ! It looks nice on my 
blue dress, anyway. I guess I can afford to be child- 
ish a little while longer. Vm not eighteen my next 
birthday.” 

“ I don’t see that I’m any meaner than you are, 
Frances Everard Carleton,” said the older girl, 
laughing good-naturedly. “ You wanted to spoil my 
essay, and that’s of more importance than a collar.” 

Just then they heard voices in the hall below; the 
guest was evidently departing. 

“ Can you understand what they’re saying? ” 
asked Fanny eagerly. 

“ You wouldn’t have me eavesdrop, would you? ” 
teased Isabel. “No, I can’t understand much; but 
I think mother’s asking him to come back for dinner 
— she’s saying something about six et demi heures. 
Goodness! We must change our dresses. I’m go- 
ing to put on my dotted muslin and my green sash.” 

“ Huh, I’m not,” said Fanny. “ I don’t see any 


158 Isabel Carleton’s Year 

use in making a fuss for a little whiffet of a French- 
man. A middy blouse is good enough for him, I’m 
sure.” 

“ Gracious! you are formal! You know mother 
never lets you come to dinner in a middy blouse, even 
when we’re alone. Go and put on the blue linen, at 
least. You look tres distingue e in that.” 

“ You needn’t talk French to me,” sniffed Fanny. 
“ I’m a plain Yankee.” 

“ Not so very plain in the blue linen,” corrected 
Isabel merrily. “ Now, go on, Miss Obstinate, and 
make yourself beautiful for the little Frenchman. 
Who knows but he may fall in love with you ? ” 

“ You needn’t be sarcastic, either,” Fanny replied, 
but she was smiling, too. She was wearing a middy 
blouse and a short white drilling skirt, below which 
a considerable length of thin ankle was showing. 
Her hair was tied up carelessly with a dark red rib- 
bon, very becoming, for it set off her olive com- 
plexion and flashing black eyes. Fanny had never 
given much thought to her appearance, but now she 
was beginning to have “ spells of primping,” as Isa- 
bel called them, during which she experimented with 
colours, and tried doing her hair in various ways. 
She was not at all averse to being called tres distin- 
guee, though she assumed a high disregard of all the 
arts of the toilette. 

“You’ll dress, won’t you?” asked Isabel, begin- 
ning to take off her own muslin blouse. 

“ Of course,” answered Fanny. “ I meant to, 
all along, Madam Fuss-and-Feathers.” And she 


The Frenchman 159 

skipped away to her own room, pulling her middy 
off over her head as she went. 

Isabel took more pains than usual with her hair 
and her sash, and she rejoiced that she had cleaned 
her white pumps that noon. Presently she heard 
her mother coming upstairs to dress. 44 Well, 
Mummy,” she said, standing in the door and fasten- 
ing her string of Roman pearl beads, “ did you like 
him? He’s going to stay for dinner, isn’t he? And 
does father think he can do something for him? ” 

44 I can’t answer so many questions at once,” said 
Mrs. Carleton, smiling. 44 Yes, he’s very nice; and 
he’s going to stay to dinner — or come back, rather. 
He had to look after his luggage or something. I 
see you’ve been getting ready for him. Is Fanny 
making herself presentable, too?” 

44 Yes, I insisted on it,” said Isabel, with a little 
maternal air that she sometimes adopted when she 
was speaking to or of her younger sister. 44 1 don’t 
want him to think that American girls are careless 
and informal.” 

44 Well, I’m not worried about what he thinks,” 
Mrs. Carleton replied, going on into her room, 44 but 
I want to be friendly to him on Cousin Eunice’s ac- 
count. She usually has good judgment, and I think 
he is a very worthy young man.” Isabel had fol- 
lowed her mother across the hall. 44 He says he’s 
been ill, and needed a change of scene,” Mrs. Carle- 
ton went on. 44 I suspect that he’s rather hard up, 
though he didn’t say so exactly. I must hurry and 
change, for it’s getting late.” 


160 Isabel Garletoris Year 

“ Can I do anything for you, mother? I’m all 
dressed.” 

“ Yes, bring Celia upstairs and undress her. She’s 
worn out and as nervous as a witch, thinking about 
her ‘ piece.’ I wish the schools wouldn’t put so 
many burdens on seven-year-old children. I’ve 
telephoned Milly Hogan to come and look after 
Celia, and give her her dinner here in my room.” 

“ I’ll bring her up here, and tell her a story,” said 
Isabel, running down the stairs. 

Dinner was a rather stiff affair, in spite of the hos- 
pitable efforts of Professor and Mrs. Carleton. 
Fanny, looking very well in the blue linen and the 
Cluny lace collar, was very prim and silent. Isabel, 
in her white muslin, was shy and quiet. The home- 
sick young man had attention only for Mrs. Carle- 
ton, who plied him with homemade dainties and 
strong coffee. 

u Les yeux de ma mere,” he murmured with 
twitching lip, then burst abruptly into an avalanche 
of French, and subsided at last into his excellent la- 
boured English. The Americans were very hos- 
pitable, he said, and already he admired them ex- 
cessively, but France! ah, France — ! He hoped 
he could stay on in Jefferson (Zhef-faire-sone, he 
called it), for it was a beautiful town, and he was 
already beginning to feel that he had les amis there. 

Here he looked over at Isabel as if he had seen 
her for the first time, and let his eyes rest for a 
moment on her flushed and sympathetic face. 

“ He’s conscious of my existence, at least,” she 


The Frenchman 161 

said to herself, enjoying her endive salad. She was 
interested in the good-looking stranger, but as yet 
he seemed very remote. She and Fanny found 
themselves quite ignored, except for a few correct 
exercise-book phrases about the weather, and the 
pleasures of a sea-voyage in June. 

“ We might just as well have worn our middies,” 
whispered Fanny petulantly, as they were leaving the 
table. 

“ Well, you can never tell what these mysterious 
foreigners are thinking,” whispered Isabel consol- 
ingly, in return. 

After dinner, father had a consultation with the 
young man in the study, and when the guest had 
departed, Professor Carleton came up to Isabel’s 
room to tell her the news. 

“ He would be very glad of a pupil or two until 
he gets a position, and you are to begin lessons the 
week after Commencement. It will be chiefly con- 
versation, for the literature and the theory you can 
get in school, or by yourself. I feel sure you can 
enter an advanced French class in college if you study 
hard this summer.” 

“ I will, father,” Isabel replied, “ and it’s awfully 
good of you to go to this expense for me. There 
are so many other things that you could do with the 
money.” 

“ Never mind that, little girl. I have those two 
commencement lectures to give, at LaCrosse and 
Winona, that I didn’t expect to have. They’ll help 
out; and anyway, I want you to have some advan- 


Isabel Garletoris Year 


162 

tages, even if we can’t do all we’d like to for you.” 

“ Thank you, Best-Father-in-the-World,” said Isa- 
bel, jumping up to give him a kiss. “ Oh ! your chin 
is all stubbly. It doesn’t look it, but it is.” 

“ Well, I shan’t shave it till morning, not even for 
the privilege of kissing you,” he answered, pinching 
her ear. “ Now, let’s see how soon you can become 
an accomplished linguist. I think Monsieur D’Al- 
bert will prove a skilful teacher.” 

“ No telling what else he’ll prove,” interrupted 
Fanny from the door, where she had appeared in her 
pink kimono. Her father looked up perplexedly. 
“ I think he’s a count in disguise, and Isabel thinks 
he’s a gentleman burglar,” continued the pink appa- 
rition. 

“ He’s neither,” replied the professor, looking 
disturbed. “ He’s a well-meaning, simple young 
man, and you girls mustn’t begin to get sentimental 
notions into your heads.” 

“ Can’t help it, daddy,” said Fanny. “ All girls 
do.” 

“ I suppose that’s true,” Professor Carleton 
sighed. “Well, I leave it all to your mother.” 
But he was heard to say, as he went slowly down- 
stairs, “ Dear me ! ” 


CHAPTER XII 


COMMENCEMENT 

A ND now Commencement Day was drawing 
alarmingly near. The final examinations were 
finished, and the essays had been learned and drilled. 
The girls had made their own graduation dresses, in 
their Domestic Arts classes — simple white gowns, 
with almost no trimming, models indeed of inexpen- 
siveness and good taste. Isabel had fashioned hers 
swiftly and happily, for her fingers had an artistic 
gift, and she loved sewing seams, making dainty 
hems, and handling lengths of lace. Her grand- 
mother had impressed her with the fact that being 
able to sew well was a ladylike accomplishment, and 
this thought was a double incentive in her work. 

It was a regret to her that Grandmother Stuart’s 
rheumatism, and Grandfather Stuart’s busy season, 
prevented them from coming for Commencement. 
“ It almost spoils it,” she complained. “ The only 
consolation is that I don’t want them to see me dis- 
grace the family by breaking down in my 4 spiel,’ as 
Rod calls it.” 

Even the arrival of attractive graduation gifts 
from relatives and friends failed to banish her secret 
apprehension. Every object, however, was a source 
of excitement and admiration to Fanny and Celia, 
163 


164 Isabel Carletons Year 

who shared the stimulation of the time, without the 
suffering. 

On the morning before Commencement — the day 
of the class picnic — Isabel was in her room combing 
her hair, when the postman rang sharply, and pres- 
ently Fanny and Celia came scrambling up the stairs 
with a small parcel. 

“ This one’s from grandma, Fanny says,” panted 
Celia, holding out the white box, neatly tied and 
stamped. 

“ Yes, it says Dalton on it,” corroborated Fanny, 
snatching it back to look at it again. 

“ Get the scissors,” cried Isabel, who with her hair 
down, was standing comb in hand, before the glass. 

“ Here they are ! ” 

Two snips of the scissors wielded vigorously by 
Fanny made short work of the string. The wrap- 
ping paper fell away, showing much tissue paper and 
plenty of pink ribbon; and then there were more 
tissue paper and a pink-flowered box. Inside, on 
white cotton, was the pink coral necklace that Isabel 
had worn to the fraternity dance, and that, long ago, 
had been Great-grandmother Isabel’s. There lay 
the carved pink roses, with their twining gold stems 
and leaves, and pearls scattered here and there, like 
dew-drops. Isabel dropped the comb on the floor, 
and bent over the box, pale with delight. 

“ Oh, let me see ! let me see ! ” begged Celia, pull- 
ing Fanny’s hands and the box down to her own 
level. “ Oh, they’re pretty little doll-rosy-posies, 
aren’t they?” 


Commencement 


165 

“ Grandmother is a darling! ” cried Isabel, turn- 
ing from white to red. “ How did she know that 
this would make me happier than anything else in 
the world? ” 

“ But here’s something more! ” exclaimed Fanny, 
who had been fumbling in the cotton. She drew out 
a tiny parcel in tissue paper — a ten-dollar gold- 
piece from grandfather. 

Isabel held it between her thumb and finger and 
looked at it. Oddly enough, her first thought was, 
“ If I had had this, I could have bought the chryso- 
prase ring.” And then came the quick reflection, 
“ If I had bought the chrysoprase, I shouldn’t have 
had the coral ring, and if I hadn’t had that, I 
shouldn’t have had the necklace ! ” At last she said 
aloud, “ Everybody is far too good to me.” 

“Right you are!” responded Fanny cheerfully, 
taking the gold-piece, and tossing it in the palm of 
her hand. “ I should think you’d be the happiest 
girl in the world.” 

“ I should be,” groaned the big sister, “ if I 
didn’t have that terrible ‘ piece ’ to speak. I’m get- 
ting scareder and scareder every minute.” 

And all that day, in spite of the gay time that the 
Seniors had at Picnic Point, Isabel felt a sinking 
somewhere in her stomach or her heart, when she 
thought of standing up before the Opera House full 
of people, and making a speech. 

“ If I didn’t know anybody, it wouldn’t be so hor- 
rible,” she confided to sympathetic Molly, just be- 
fore the picnic lunch, when she was feeling so ter- 


1 66 Isabel Carletons Year 

rified that it seemed impossible for her to eat a bite. 
“ It’s awful to fail in front of your whole family and 
all your best friends.” She wanted to add, “ And 
Rod especially,” but she didn’t. 

“ Oh, you won’t fail — no danger ! Cheer up ! ” 
said Molly, who was enjoying the happy immunity 
that only moderate standings had brought her. 
“ Here, have some of these chocolate-buds,” she 
consoled, reaching into the pocket of her linen skirt. 
“ Eric brought me some, but we ate nearly all of 
them up on the boat. You’ll cover yourself with 
glory, Little One. In the bright lexicon of youth 
there is no such word as being scared to death.” 

“ What! scared, Isabel?” queried Eric Thomas, 
coming up just then, his light hair ruffled in the wind, 
and his dark blue necktie blowing. He, too, had a 
speech to make, but he was taking it philosophically, 
in the provoking way that masculine creatures have. 

“Well — a little,” confessed Isabel, nervously 
jabbing a hat-pin into her last summer’s Panama, 
which she held in her hand. 

“ Aw, let the crowd worry,” protested Eric. 
“ They’ll suffer a lot more than we do ! ” 

“ I hope not,” answered the very miserable little 
valedictorian. “ I’d be sorry for them if they did.” 

“ They need your sympathy,” said Eric. “ When 
in the dickens are we going to have lunch? I’m 
absolutely savage with starvation ! ” 

But Isabel’s apprehension seemed to grow worse 
instead of better. That night, after she had gone 
to bed, a wave of terror swept over her. She 


Commencement 


167 

seemed to see the audience, like the beast with the 
thousand eyes that she had read of in the Bible, all 
glaring at her, and paralysing her with their fero- 
cious stare. And she imagined herself standing 
mute and shaking, her tongue stiff and her brain 
empty. 

She sat up in bed, in the moonlight, wringing her 
hands. “Oh, I can’t do it,” she whispered — “I 
can’t! I’ll have to tell Mr. Stacy in the morning 
that I just can’t. Mother’ll have to telephone him. 
I don’t care what he says — ” 

At that moment a figure appeared in the bar of 
moonlight that lay across the floor and the bed. It 
was Mrs. Carleton, in her long blue gown, — led by 
that instinct that mothers do not have to explain. 
She came over and sat down on the edge of the bed, 
and took Isabel’s unsteady hand. “ What is it, 
honey? ” she asked tenderly. 

The girl leaned her head on her mother’s shoul- 
der. “ Oh, Mummy-Carl ! I’m so frightened,” 
she wailed. “ I’m simply frightened stiff. I can’t 
say my speech to-morrow, I really can’t. Oh, I wish 
I never had said I would. I don’t want to be vale- 
dictorian. I’d a lot rather some one else had it. It 
belonged to Eric anyway.” 

Mrs. Carleton did not say anything at first, but 
merely smoothed the twitching shoulder in the thin 
nightgown; and then she said quietly, “This is all 
foolishness. You’ll go through it like mother’s 
brave girl. Just think how proud we are all going 
to be, and how happy and glad you’ll be, when it’s 


1 68 Isabel Carletons Year 

over! If you let yourself go to pieces when a little 
trial like this comes to you, you won’t make very 
much of a success in life.” 

“ I know I ought to be ashamed,” murmured Isa- 
bel. “ I suppose I am acting like a coward. But 
oh, it does seem so awful to have to speak before 
all those people ! ” 

“ But you’ve spoken at school, very successfully, 
and never felt quite like this.” 

“ I’ve always been scared; and anyway, this is dif- 
ferent. They don’t expect so much of you at 
school.” 

“ If it’s different, it’s the other way. At the 
Commencement exercises, everybody is just as sym- 
pathetic and tolerant as can be. Don’t you remem- 
ber how anxious we all were last year that Rodney 
should do his part well? It’s the kindest sort of 
audience to speak before.” 

“ Rodney did splendidly, didn’t he? If I thought 
I could go through it like that — ” Isabel sighed, 
and began to smooth back her hair. 

“ There’s no reason why you can’t. You must be 
willing to forget yourself. It’s the ‘ exaggeration of 
the Ego / as father says, that makes us all self-con- 
scious and nervous about other people’s opinions. 
Just think about what you have to say, and forget 
how you’re looking or acting.” 

“ I’ll try, mother, for I really do want to say 
something fine about William Morris, and I do feel 
what I’ve written about the good times we’ve had at 
school, and how sorry we are to give them up.” 


Commencement 


169 

“Well, remember that, then, when you get up to 
speak. And remember, too ” — she bent over to 
kiss her daughter’s hot cheek — “ that we’re all lov- 
ing you, and thinking good for you, every second. 
Doesn’t that help? ” 

u I should say it does ! ” Isabel dropped back on 
her pillow with a long breath. “ Somehow, I feel 
better, mother.” 

u You’ll be as brave as a lion in the morning,” re- 
sponded Mrs. Carleton. “ And now I’m going to 
stay with you till you go to sleep.” 

“ That’ll be too long, Old-Lady-who-lived-in-a- 
Shoe,” said Isabel drowsily. But it was not many 
minutes until her regular breathing showed that she 
had forgotten her troubles; and Mrs. Carleton stole 
out of the room. 

The next morning, Isabel’s courage had come 
back. The exercises were to be at half-past ten, and 
so there was a good deal of hurrying in the house, 
and much running up and down stairs. Isabel had 
her breakfast in bed, with Fanny and Celia standing 
by as willing servitors, and Olga hovering about to 
see if anything more were wanted. 

The egg was boiled to the exact point of creami- 
ness, and the toast was the perfection of golden- 
brown; and the coffee was in a Spode cup that had 
been “ in the family ” for ever so long. Then the 
tray cloth was one of mother’s choicest, and the nap- 
kin one of the best hand-embroidered set; and there 
was a pink rose lying on the tray beside the tumbler 
of water. 


170 Isabel Carletons Year 

“ This is the way I’d like to have breakfast every 
day,” sighed the luxurious young lady, leaning back 
among the pillows, nibbling toast and sniffing the 
pink rose. “ It almost pays for the agony I have to 
go through.” 

“ I’m afraid you wouldn’t have anyone to wait on 
you the rest of the year,” said Fanny bluntly, leaning 
over the foot of the bed. “ You haven’t sisters 
enough to go round, and poor Olga has other fish to 
fry.” 

“ Anyway I can get an idea of what it would be 
like,” answered Isabel. And just then Celia came 
tearing in with the mail — three postcards and a let- 
ter and a parcel for Isabel. 

Caroline Harper had sent the letter and the pack- 
age — a pair of white silk stockings. “ I’d love to 
see you graduate,” she wrote, “ but mother says it 
would be painful to me to be there, and I guess she’s 
right. So I’m going to stay on here another week 
or two.” 

After she had read the letter, Isabel stared 
thoughtfully into the branches of the big maple out- 
side her window. “ I’m pretty sure,” she said to 
herself, “ that I’d rather be graduating with the class 
and not making a very great success of it than to be 
exiled altogether! Poor Caroline!” She folded 
the letter, and smoothed the silk hose with an af- 
fectionate touch. 

“ Better get up, Chick-a-Biddy,” said Mrs. Carle- 
ton, coming into the room. And then, almost be- 
fore she quite knew what was happening, Isabel was 


Commencement 


171 

dressed, and whirled away to the Opera House in 
the Lenners’ automobile. The rest of the family 
were to come later. 

It was very thrilling to be behind the scenes, 
though it was not entirely new, for the speakers had 
been there once or twice to drill, and “ get the range ” 
of the house, so that they might be heard. The girls 
were all in white, and the boys in blue serge coats 
and white duck trousers. The girls chattered inces- 
santly of the presents they had received, and the boys 
stood around very stiffly, feeling of their neckties and 
making feeble jokes. Molly Ramsay kept every- 
body waiting, and then arrived calmly, eating the 
last of a roll of milk-chocolate wafers, because she 
had been too excited to eat breakfast. “ I don’t 
know why I should be so excited,” she said, looking 
around at the group of anxious young people, “ when 
I don’t have to do anything but sit on the stage, and 
take somebody else’s diploma when it’s handed to 
me! ” And then she whispered to Isabel, “ I’m ex- 
cited about you, Goldilocks — much more so than as 
if it were myself ! ” 

“ I’m all right,” Isabel replied as cheerfully as 
possible. And then Mr. Stacy began to give orders 
in a subdued but worried tone, and they all marched 
out on the stage to the sound of clapping from the 
audience, and took their seats in two semicircular 
rows of chairs. 

It was a long time before Isabel “ found herself ” 
sufficiently to distinguish anybody in the hall, but at 
last she discovered Fanny’s red hair-ribbon and 


172 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


Celia’s blue dress; and then, of course, there were 
mother and father, trying to catch her eye, and 
further back there was Rodney looking at her very 
solemnly and trustfully. 

“ I’ll have to think terribly hard about William,” 
she thought, u for it won’t do to get into a panic. I 
won’t — I just won’t — exaggerate the Ego.” 

And so she fixed her mind as best she could on the 
subject of her essay, and now and then she caught 
snatches of what Eric Thomas and Verna Schofield 
were saying — wondering how they could be so calm. 
There was some singing, too, that distracted her at- 
tention, and toward the last she even succeeded in 
looking about the theatre and noting what clothes 
her acquaintances had on. 

“ Mrs. Mitchell is wearing that lovely lavender 
silk,” she thought. “ It must be pretty warm — 
but then, it has lace sleeves. And Eileen Coye has a 
new pink dress — it looks like silk muslin — awfully 
sweet! And oh, dear, Fraulein Ewald has on that 
queer purple rig that she wore so much last year. I 
don’t suppose she dreams how dreadful she looks in 
it.” 

And then she was aware that Mr. Stacy was read- 
ing from the programme, “ The Work of William 
Morris, by Miss Isabel Carleton.” 

For a moment, a frightful sinking feeling kept 
Isabel in her chair. Her heart seemed to contract 
to the size of a hazel nut, and then to expand with 
throbs that shook her whole frame. She rose me- 
chanically, and bowed to Mr. Stacy; she was not con- 


Commencement 


173 


scious of her body, but her mind seemed to float out 
toward the edge of the platform, where the mass of 
faces began. There was a kind of mist before her 
eyes, and she wondered vaguely whether she were 
trembling so that everybody would notice. Dream- 
ily she sought and found the chalk-mark at the front 
of the stage, where Mr. Stacy had told them all to 
stand. 

She did not know how attractive the girlish figure 
looked, poised uncertainly against the shadowy back- 
ground of the stage. Her gown hung in simple 
folds, with a white fringed sash knotted at the side. 
Her low collar was edged with thread-lace, and she 
wore the pink coral necklace — her only touch of 
color except the flush in her cheeks. Her shining 
hair was in a coil on her neck. In all, she was a 
charming vision of sweet and unspoiled girlhood. 

To her, however, nothing was of smaller conse- 
quence than her appearance. She could think of 
nothing but the rows of faces that stretched before 
her — miles and miles of faces, confused and indis- 
tinguishable, mere pink blotches with eyes. And 
she was suddenly and sharply conscious that she did 
not know what she was going to say. Her brain 
was empty, just as it had been in those prophetic 
minutes in bed, the night before. For an almost 
painful space she stood looking down mutely upon 
the audience. And then she found her mother’s 
face, with the love and “ thoughts of good ” in it 
that had been promised her; and Rodney’s, too, with 
its trustful gaze. She knew now that she could not 


174 Isabel Carletons Year 

fail. Her dry lips opened, and the words came 
forth. 

The essay seemed to be saying itself. The sen- 
tences that she had constructed with such careful 
thought now appeared never to have had any con- 
nection with her, — they were the words of a stran- 
ger. She knew that her lips were moving, but she 
was not at all sure what they were saying. To those 
listening, the youthful voice was full of conviction 
and expression, and an earnest belief seemed to 
enter into every line. Her father and mother turned 
to each other with eyes that said, “ There ! it’s just 
as we thought it would be ! ” Fanny settled back in 
her seat drawing a long breath. Rodney Fox, fol- 
lowing every word, sat upright with his arms folded, 
no muscle of his face relaxing. But he seemed to be 
looking beyond her, too, at something that was very 
far away. 

Isabel went on speaking, easily, deliberately, never 
faltering nor giving any evidence of fear. To all 
appearances, she quite enjoyed delivering this mes- 
sage concerning a world-worker whom she admired 
much. Afterward, it seemed to her that she had 
been like an alarm clock that, once started, must per- 
force go on to the end of its clamour and clatter. 
“ I don’t believe I’d have stopped if the roof had 
fallen in,” she was heard to say. “ I should have 
gone on reeling off my little sing-song until the plas- 
ter smothered me.” 

However that may have been, she went on uner- 
ringly through every successive passage, and reached 


Commencement 


*75 

the climax at the end with a strong voice and a show 
of emotion that made a vigorous conclusion to a well- 
sustained effort. 

When she had finished, she paused for a moment 
before she began her valedictory address, and looked 
up in surprise when she heard the sound of clapping. 
She had been so absorbed — paralysed, she would 
have said — that she had wholly forgotten the pos- 
sibility of applause. 

Then she gave her speech of farewell to the stu- 
dents and the teachers. She had so far recovered 
herself that she knew every syllable that she was say- 
ing, and the real regret in her tone and in her words 
was as tangible to herself as to her listeners. Some 
of the girls on the platform were seen to dabble their 
eyes with their handkerchiefs, and some of the boys 
winked very hard and looked determinedly uncon- 
cerned. 

At the end of the address, there was more clap- 
ping, and Isabel sank into her seat, with a vivid sense 
of exhaustion. But it was dispelled in a moment, 
when three bouquets were handed up to her. One 
was from the Lenners, and one from Fred Delafield 
and Evelyn Taylor, who had not been able to be 
present, because they were taking examinations at 
the University. The other, of pale pink roses, with 
sprays of fern, had an envelope attached to it, on 
which she recognised Rodney’s handwriting. 

“ How lovely of Rod!” she thought. “He 
knows just what I like.” She mechanically fingered 
the pink petals and the lacy fronds, while Mr. Stacy 


176 Isabel Carletoris Year 

was making his remarks that preceded the handing 
about of the diplomas. 

A singing happiness hummed in her brain. It 
was over — all the work and the strain and the 
struggle. She was vibrating with joy and relief and 
gratitude, with the goodness of life and the exhilara- 
tion of success. 

“ How could I ever have thought things hard? ” 
she whispered. “It was really nothing!” And 
she found Molly Ramsay squeezing her hand, and 
Eric Thomas on the other side making congratula- 
tory jokes in an undertone. 

Presently they had all risen, and Mr. Stacy was 
giving a stiff white roll to each, — and then people 
were crowding about and shaking hands, and chat- 
tering and praising the speakers, and giving the gen- 
eral effect of a very vivacious five-o’clock tea. 

Fanny rushed up, with a red spot on each cheek, 
and her hair-ribbon askew. “Ugh! Isabel, I 
thought for a minute you were going to be scared,” 
she gasped. “ Oh! I just held onto the arms of my 
chair and squirmed 

Celia put her arms around her sister’s neck and 
whispered, “ Oh, you looked so nice, Ducky-Bird, — 
and another present came just after you left, and 
what do you s’pose it is? ” 

“ I can’t guess! We’ll open it as soon as I get 
home.” And then Isabel turned to receive her 
mother’s kiss, and her father’s, “ Not bad at all, lit- 
tle girl,” which were the best of her rewards for 
hard work. 


Commencement 


177 


Mother and father were smiling and talking to 
Mr. Stacy and the other teachers, and saying, “ Yes, 
of course we’re proud of her;” “Thank you, it’s 
good of you to say so; ” “ Yes, next year — college, 
of course;” “She doesn’t quite know — French, 
perhaps; ” “ She’d like to go to Europe, but I hardly 
think she can.” 

Then Rodney came up, with his cheeks redder and 
his eyes brighter than ever. He gave her a long 
firm grasp of the hand, and cried, “ Three cheers for 
the silver-tongued oratress of Jefferson ! It was out 
of sight, Isabel. That’s what I call some spiel! ” 

“ Was it all right, Rod? ” asked the girl anxiously, 
finding his praise very sweet. 

“ Absolutely A number one, all wool and a yard 
wide. Couldn’t have been finer if Julia Marlowe 
had been saying it! ” 

“ There’s nothing like spreading it on thick,” 
laughed Isabel; and then she said, “The roses are 
lovely, Rod, and I’m so happy to have them.” She 
had peeped at the card in the envelope, and it only 
said, “ Hearty congratulations and best wishes,” but 
somehow it seemed to say more. 

“ They aren’t lovely enough,” said Rodney in a 
low tone; and added, lower still, “Nothing would 
be.” 

And Isabel, because she did not know what to 
answer, pretended not to have heard, and turned to 
speak to old Mr. Lenner, who had just come up to 
say how proud he was of his “ young friend.” 

Then she and her mother went home in the Len- 


1 78 Isabel Carletoris Year 

ners’ car, and the rest of the family and Rodney fol- 
lowed on foot; and there was an especially “ sump- 
tuous repast,” as Fanny called it, that Olga had spent 
the forenoon in preparing, with fried chicken and 
green peas and strawberry shortcake, — and the bou- 
quet of pink roses in the middle of the table. 

“ I feel like the heroine of a three-volume novel,” 
sighed Isabel, sitting down to her dessert, after she 
had been called to the telephone for the third time 
during the meal. “ It’s wonderful to be the centre 
of things for one day at least. But I don’t know 
that I could stand it indefinitely.” 

“ You’ll have to get used to it if you’re going to 
be a famous ‘ lady-novelist,’ ” said her father with 
his eyes twinkling. “ Rodney, did you know that we 
have with us to-day a not-very-far-in-the-future 
George Eliot, who is going to take the world by 
storm? ” 

“ I’ve changed my mind,” Isabel broke in. “ The 
graduation essay has cured me of any literary ambi- 
tions, for a while anyway. I can think of thousands 
of other things I’d like to do.” 

“ Nothing, of course, that won’t make you fa- 
mous,” teased Professor Carleton. But Isabel took 
the banter of the family very good-naturedly, for the 
family seemed very good and precious to her just 
then. 

In the afternoon, when Rodney had gone, and the 
new presents had been looked at, and some sort of 
quiet had settled on the house, Mrs. Carleton in- 
sisted on Isabel’s going to her room to rest, while 


Commencement 


179 

Fanny guarded the telephone, and took any mes- 
sages that might come over the wire. 

And then, in the evening, there was the Senior 
Ball in the High School gymnasium. Rodney and 
Eric and Molly called for Isabel, and the gaiety 
never ceased till one o’clock, when they all came 
laughing and chattering back again. “ I’m abso- 
lutely wilted,” said Isabel to Molly, as they were say- 
ing good night, “ but I’ve had a wonderful time, and 
it’s been a day to remember! ” 

“ Hasn’t it! ” said Molly wistfully. “ Remember 
it a long, long time, Goldilocks, because — ” she 
paused a little uncertainly. 

“Why?” asked Isabel. She and Molly were in 
the vestibule and the boys were waiting outside. 

“ I don’t know, exactly,” Molly replied slowly, 
“ but somehow I feel as if it were the end of 
things.” 

“Nonsense,” Isabel smiled. “You’re tired, 
Molly-kins. Why, things are going to go on just as 
beautifully as ever for four years more, at least. 
We’ll both be in college next year.” 

“ I’m not sure,” said Molly with a catch in her 
voice. “ Something — something — ” 

“ It’s something very silly then,” insisted Isabel. 
“ Run along, now, for you’re worn out with dancing 
and getting diplomas. The boys are sure to be im- 
patient.” 

Molly kissed Isabel and put her dark head against 
the bright one. “ Anyway, I love you, Goldilocks,” 
she said. “ You won’t forget that, will you? ” 


180 Isabel Carletoris Year 

“ Never! ” responded Isabel, giving Molly a hug. 
“ Good night, Calamity Jane! ” 

But the conversation had come back to her many 
times before the next seventeenth of June. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE UNREASONABLENESS OF RODNEY 
HE first few days after Commencement were 



X almost as busy as those before, for there were 
so many things to do that had been neglected. And 
then, Fred and Evelyn insisted on “ just one or two 
more stunts ” ; and besides, there was the University 
Commencement Week. Isabel had never gone much 
to University affairs, except a lecture or a concert 
now and then, partly because she had been so busy 
with her own school circle, and partly because she 
was frankly not interested in what was taking place 
“ on the Hill.” But now things were beginning to 
be quite different. She went with Rodney, or with 
Fred and Evelyn and Rodney, to the Ivy-planting, 
and the Junior Play, and the Music School concert, 
and the Regatta, and the Commencement proper, at 
which the degrees were conferred. “ She ought to 
go,” Rodney said gravely to Mrs. Carleton, “ so 
that she’ll feel more as if she belonged to things 
next year.” 

But Mrs. Carleton had smiled and answered, 
“ One never needs a reason, Rodney, for having a 
harmless good time,” and the young man had looked 
puzzled, as if he scarcely knew whether he were be- 
ing teased or not. 

The French lessons were at first rather embar- 


182 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


rassing to Isabel, for Monsieur D’Albert looked so 
very correct and inscrutable, and was so painfully po- 
lite that he made her feel very young and gauche. 
His bows, his quick placing of a chair for her, his 
nimble leap when she dropped her pencil or her 
handkerchief (which, out of sheer nervousness, she 
did with horrifying frequency) all made her self- 
conscious and abashed. Her mother always stayed 
in the next room with the door open, and Isabel 
therefore felt a sense of relief and companionship, 
but the first few lessons were something of a trial. 
Then after that came a growing interest and pleas- 
ure, and an increasing freedom in her use of French. 

Now the excitement of the first part of the vaca- 
tion had begun to wane. The University Com- 
mencement was over, and Fred and Evelyn had 
gone. Molly Ramsay was visiting in Evanston for 
a week or so, and Eric Thomas had gone on a camp- 
ing trip. Caroline Harper had come home, and 
then in a few days had gone out to the Harpers’ cot- 
tage on Lake Kegonsah. The Summer Session had 
begun, and father was giving one course — an eight 
o’clock — and writing away on his book the rest of 
the time. Mother was as much occupied with the 
house and the family as ever. Only Fanny and Celia 
seemed to lead the butterfly life of continuous leisure 
and fun. 

Rodney had a cold; and a week of rain kept him 
indoors. The first bright day, however, he came 
over to ask Isabel to go for a walk along the lake 
road. In a few minutes they were enjoying the 


The Unreasonableness of Rodney 183 

breeze that blew from the lake, and the shade of the 
willows that overhung the path. 

“Shall we sit down here?” said Rodney when 
they had reached an especially attractive spot where 
some boulders furnished comfortable seats near the 
water. 

“ I always like this place,” answered Isabel. 

A slight blue haze hung over the lake, where sail- 
boats were skimming back and forth. Small slow 
waves dashed against the rocks, and, overhead, bit- 
ter-sweet and wild grape vines with pale green pen- 
dent clusters made a kind of natural bower. 

“ Great day,” said Rodney, when they had seated 
themselves on the stones. 

“ I call it a heavenly afternoon,” sighed Isabel, 
bending down to pluck a spray of spearmint. 

“ It’s like poetry,” Rodney replied, looking off 
across the lake to the other shore, where a group of 
white domes rose above the trees. 

“ The splendour falls on castle walls, 

And snowy summits old in story, 

The long light shakes across the lakes, 

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.” 

There isn’t any cataract, or any snowy summit, and 
the castle is only the State Hospital, but anyway, 
those lines seem to fit, don’t they? ” 

“ Yes, they do,” said Isabel dreamily. “ I think 
they’re beautiful. They’re from Tennyson, aren’t 
they?” 

“ Yes; but do you know, one hardly dares confess 


Isabel Garletons Year 


184 

that he reads poetry. The fellows don’t do it much, 
except a few on the sly. They seem to think it’s 
silly and sissy-like.” 

“ I don’t see why they should,” protested Isabel 
stoutly. “ They aren’t any better than the men who 
wrote it. I don’t think even the college fellows 
would call Shakespeare a sissy, or Browning, or Wil- 
liam Morris, or Tennyson.” 

“ Well, anyway,” answered Rodney, “ the fellows 
sort of laugh at it; or if you read it they’re good- 
natured and patronising about it. They say you’re 
‘ nutty on the sing-song,’ or ‘ a good little Phi Bet’ 
chaser,’ or something like that. They don’t seem 
to understand that a fellow can be a real man and 
like poetry too.” 

“ It’s queer, isn’t it? ” 

“ And the girls are hardly any better. If you 
quote poetry to ’em, they stare and wonder what 
you’re talking about, or else they giggle and think 
you’re getting sentimental. You never either stare 
or giggle. You’re a good fellow, Isabel. That’s 
why I like you. You’re always ready for a good 
time, and you’re never silly or loud.” 

“ I’m glad you feel so, Rod,” said Isabel simply. 
“ If it’s true, it’s because mother and father brought 
me up that way.” 

“ They’re a mighty good sort, take it from me,” 
said Rodney heartily. 

The two young people were silent for a few min- 
utes. Some fraternity men that Rodney knew 
passed in a canoe, and waved their paddles, grin- 


The Unreasonableness of Rodney 185 

ning. Isabel hardly noticed them, for she was ab- 
sorbed in watching a wavering mauve streak on the 
water, with two sails shining yellow-white against it. 

“ You’ve done awfully well in your work this 
year, haven’t you? ” said Isabel at last. 

“ Pretty well. I’ve been a greasy grind in the 
privacy of my own room. But outside I’ve had a 
ripping good time. Oh, college is the place! A 
fellow meets older men there, and knocks about a lit- 
tle, and gets what’s coming to him, — straight in the 
neck, maybe, but anyway he isn’t coddled or wrapped 
up in cotton-wadding. Perhaps nobody would know 
it, but this has been a big year for me.” 

“ Yes, you have grown older,” meditated Isabel 
looking sidewise at the boy’s face. She had not 
really noticed before how much more firm and set- 
tled and fine it had become. “ Why, Rod looks like 
a really-truly young man,” she thought — “ and next 
year I’ll be a young lady.” And the same kind of 
perplexed exulting came over her that she had felt 
that day of the arbutus trip: the fearsomeness and 
the ecstasy of growing up. 

“ It takes a fellow a long time now-a-days to get 
ready to earn a living,” Rodney was saying. “ Col- 
lege for four years, and then perhaps graduate work 
for another year, and then two or three years to 
get where he can make anything.” 

“ Oh, it’s not so bad as that, is it? ” 

“ Well, of course, he may begin to earn a little 
after he gets through college, but it’s two or three 
years after that before he can save anything. A 


Isabel Carletons Year 


1 86 

fellow hates to be dependent on his father for any- 
thing more than college.” 

“ Yes, a man ought to take care of himself after 
that,” answered Isabel with decision, “ and a woman, 
too.” 

Rodney started and looked up at her. “ A 
woman? Why-y, yes, perhaps. I hadn’t thought 
much about that.” 

“ I’m going to do something for my living, too. 
I can hardly wait,” Isabel remarked. 

Rodney looked confused. “ Oh, come, now, Isa- 
bel! You aren’t planning it already? ” 

“ Yes, I am. I’m going to be a wage-earner as 
soon as I can.” 

“What! not go out and work in a factory or 
something?” Rodney was alarmed at the word 
“ wage-earner.” 

“ No, I’m going on the stage — ” 

“ Jiminy crickets ! There’s nothing slow about 
you.” 

“Or I’ll do interior decorating — ” 

“ A good cook’s the best interior decorator that I 
know of,” put in Rodney. 

“ Aren’t you ashamed to make fun of me? Any- 
way, I’m going to teach French, if I can’t do any- 
thing else. It sounds rather flat after talking about 
going on the stage,” she laughed, “ but teaching 
French is what I really expect to come to. I’m 
going to set about preparing myself — seriously, at 
once.” 

“ But, Isabel, maybe you won’t have to — ” 


The Unreasonableness of Rodney 187 

“ But I want to, Rod; it must be beautiful to be 
doing something in the world, — and to have your 
own money. I hate to take father’s when he works 
so hard.” 

“That’s what men are for — to work hard for 
the women they — care for.” His boyish tongue 
stumbled at the word “ love.” 

“ Yes, it’s all right for mother, but not for me, — 
after I’m old enough to earn anything for myself.” 

“ Well, — ” Rodney grew rather red — “ perhaps 
by that time you’ll have some one to earn money for 
you — as your father does for your mother.” 

“ Oh,” said Isabel thoughtfully, “ you mean 
maybe I’ll be married. Well, possibly, but I think 
it’s better not to think about that now, while I’m so 
young.” 

“ If you’re too young to think about that, you’re 
too young to think about the other — the wage-earn- 
ing stuff,” muttered Rodney. 

“ Oh, no, I’m not ! ” 

The lake-steamer was passing, not far from shore, 
and they both stopped talking and watched it as it 
puffed along, with its paddle-wheel churning up the 
water. The sun caught the puffs of smoke and 
turned them into billows of gold. 

“ Father wants me to know French very well,” 
Isabel resumed, after the boat had disappeared 
around a curve, “ so that I can make use of it if need 
be. And I’ve made up my mind to work hard at it. 
Perhaps — sometime — before I’m grey-haired, I 
can go abroad and learn it more perfectly.” 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


188 

“ I don’t like that French tutor of yours,” Rod- 
ney broke out almost angrily, as if he were giving 
vent to something that had worried him for some 
time. “ He’s too good to be true, with his bowing 
and scraping, and his little moustache, and lonesome- 
looking eyes, and his bland smile. I’ll bet there’s 
something queer about him.” 

“Why, Rodney Fox! Cousin Eunice sent us a 
letter about him, and he’s very nice.” 

“ How long had she known him? ” 

“ Not very long, maybe; but she’s a good judge 
of character. And anyway, it’s easy to see that he’s 
a gentleman.” 

“ It isn’t easy for me ! ” 

“ Perhaps you don’t know one when you see him.” 

“Isabel!” 

“ Oh, Rod, I know that was horrid. But you’re 
horrid, too, to say such mean things.” 

“ I don’t see why you should be so keen to defend 
a fellow that you don’t know.” 

“ I’ll defend anybody that’s attacked without rea- 
son. 

“ I haven’t attacked him, and I have a reason.” 

“ It can’t be a very good one! ” 

“ It’s good enough — ” 

“ You don’t know anything about him.” 

“ Neither do you! ” 

“ Father wouldn’t have allowed him to come to 
the house if he hadn’t been all right.” 

“ Your father’s too busy to think much about those 


The Unreasonableness of Rodney 189 

things. Besides — he’s a brick, but he trusts every- 
body.” 

“ I’d rather trust everybody than suspect people 
that don’t happen to please me.” 

“ I think you’re unkind, Isabel.” 

“ And anyway,” the girl went on, “ mother al- 
ways stays in the next room, when he’s at the house.” 

“ She’d better,” muttered Rodney, flushing. 

“Oh, dear, what a fuss about nothing!” cried 
Isabel; “ and on such a lovely day.” 

“ It isn’t nothing,” answered Rodney, “ even if he 
is a cipher.” 

“ I can’t see what’s the matter with you, Rod,” 
sighed Isabel. “ You’ve never been so unreason- 
able before.” 

“ You never had a French tutor before.” Rod- 
ney was fiercely breaking up bits of dry twigs and 
throwing them into the water. His lips showed a 
hard line, and he kept his eyes obstinately lowered. 

They sat for some time in silence. The sunset 
grew more brilliant, and a red glow settled over the 
lake. 

At last Isabel rose, saying decidedly, “ I think I’d 
better go home.” 

“ Just as you please,” said Rodney, rising too. 

They walked back over the stones, to the roadway, 
now in shadow. “Oh, dear!” thought Isabel, 
“ how dreadful to have Rod so glum. I can’t see 
what makes him act so foolishly.” 

Just then there was a rattle of wheels, followed by 


190 Isabel Garletoris Year 

a blare from an automobile horn, and Professor 
Mitchell’s machine whirled around a curve in the 
road. Professor Mitchell was driving, and Mrs. 
Mitchell and Billy-Boy — a fat blue-eyed three-year- 
old — were on the back seat. Professor Mitchell 
brought the car to a standstill, with a great swirling 
of dust and throbbing of the engine. 

“Hello, chicks!” he called heartily. “Want a 
ride? Or do you prefer to go on foot and enjoy 
each other’s society? ” 

“ We prefer to ride in grandeur,” laughed Isabel. 
She was much relieved, for she was beginning to feel 
vexed at Rodney for his childishness. She didn’t 
even notice that Professor Mitchell had used the un- 
dignified word “ chicks,” though it was rankling in 
Rodney’s heart. 

“ You get in with Mrs. Mitchell and the Boss of 
the Family,” the Professor went on, “ and you jump 
in here with me, Rod.” Rodney, after a slight hesi- 
tation, jumped in, and they spun away over the drive. 
Isabel, cuddling Billy-Boy, and talking with Mrs. 
Mitchell, whom she dearly loved, forgot, for the 
moment, the late unpleasantness with Rodney. 
When she saw him again, he acted as if nothing had 
happened; but from that time, Monsieur D’Albert 
had acquired a new interest. She wondered more 
about him, and began to feel that her very uncer- 
tainty was a source of fascination. And she began 
to like him better because he had been unjustly at- 
tacked. 


CHAPTER XIV 


grandfather’s day 

I SABEL was hurriedly straightening up her 
room, after she had put on her dotted muslin 
dress, which Mrs. Hogan had “ done up ” freshly, 
only the day before. It was a clear forenoon in the 
early half of July, and the girl was feeling very 
happy and satisfied with the world. She was hum- 
ming gaily to herself, and then she stopped humming 
to say, half-aloud, “ They’re sure to be perfect 
dreams! ” 

As she hung away in the closet the Japanese 
kimono, with its pink-and-white embroidered blos- 
soms, and its gold dragons, that Aunt Felicia had 
sent her for Christmas, she caressed the folds with a 
loving hand. “How I do adore pretty things!” 
she thought. “ When I get rich, I’ll have all the 
frothy, frilly, ruffiy, ribbony, lacy things I can pos- 
sibly wear — and what I can’t wear, I’ll just sit and 
look at.” 

She went on swiftly with her work, but her mind 
was full of the wonderful opportunity that she was 
to have to-day. “ I don’t suppose I’ll ever see such 
lovely clothes again till I go to Paris myself, and 
goodness knows when that will be ! ” she said dream- 
ily, standing for a moment with her hair-brush in her 
191 


192 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


hand, and looking off into the boughs of the maple 
outside her window. She did not see the leaves 
trembling in the wind, but rooms and cases full of 
Parisian furbelows, and all the delicate, charming 
bits of apparel that girls of seventeen — and some 
older ones — have a passion for. 

Caroline Harper’s aunt was visiting in Jefferson, 
on her way home from Paris, where she had been 
studying art. She was young and rich and attrac- 
tive — and she was going to be married. She had 
bought her trousseau in Paris. Caroline had per- 
suaded her to let a few of the girls in the neighbour- 
hood come to see the things. It was the first time 
that Caroline had asked the girls to her house since 
she had returned from Kentucky. “ Oh, my dear! ” 
she had said over the telephone, “ you can’t imagine 
how exquisite they are. They’re simply wonderful. 
And the gowns — well, you’ll have to see them to 
understand.” 

The girls were to have luncheon in the arbour with 
the red rambler climbing over it, and then Aunt 
Imogene was to show them her Parisian finery, and 
talk to them about being an art student abroad. 

Isabel was anticipating all this, as she stood gaz- 
ing through and beyond the boughs of the maple. 
At last she came to herself, glancing at the clock, 
for she was getting impatient to go. She put the 
hair-brush away, looked hastily about the room, to 
see that everything was right, and then ran singing 
downstairs. 

“La-la! La-la!” trilled Isabel — and stopped 


193 


Grandfather s Day 

at the foot of the stairs, just as a handsome, white- 
haired old man stepped up on the porch. With a 
cry of delight, she unfastened the screen door, and 
threw her arms around the old man’s neck. 
“ Grandfather! ” she exclaimed, “ what a surprising 
person you are ! ” 

“ I just took it into my head to run in for the 
day,” laughed grandfather, wiping his forehead 
with his handkerchief. “ Where are all the fam- 
ily?” 

Isabel’s heart sank; she turned cold in spite of the 
sunshine. “ They’re all away, grandfather,” she 
said, trying to speak naturally; “ there’s no one here 
but me — and Olga, of course.” 

“What! all away?” 

“ Yes. Father and mother and Celia went up to 
Blatchford. They just started a little while ago. 
Mother and Celia are going to stay two days, but 
father’s coming back on the 1 1 :02 this evening.” 

“ And Fanny?” 

“ She’s spending the day with the Mitchells across 
the lake.” 

“ Dear, dear! ” said grandfather. “ And this is 
the only day I could really spare. Haying begins 
to-morrow.” The overseeing of the work on his 
big stock-farm kept Mr. Stuart very busy during the 
summer. 

“ They’ll all be terribly disappointed not to see 
you,” returned Isabel. “ You don’t come very 
often.” As she talked, she was wondering what she 
should do. 


194 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


“ Well, I’m sorry,” said grandfather, nonplussed 
for a moment; “ but I don’t object to your company 
a bit.” 

Isabel’s laugh was a trifle strained. “ Come in 
and sit down,” she said, leading the way to the sitting- 
room, where she pulled forward the mahogany chair 
that had been grandfather’s mother’s. Mr. Stuart 
leaned back restfully, and Isabel took his hat. 

“ Will you get me a drink of water, child? ” he 
asked. “ I walked up from the station, and the sun 
really is warm.” 

“ Oh, there’s lemonade in the ice-box,” said Isabel, 
who was thinking very hard. “ I’ll get you some.” 

She ran lightly enough through the dining-room, 
but she stopped in the little entry between that room 
and the kitchen. Leaning against the wall, she 
stifled a sob, and two hot tears ran down her cheeks. 
“ I can’t give it up,” she whispered — “ seeing all 
the beautiful Paris things that I’m simply mad 
over ! ” 

Grandfather was here for the whole day; his train 
did not go till eight in the evening. “ What shall I 
do?” Isabel questioned herself, in the dusk of the 
entry-way. But she wiped the tears, and went out 
into the kitchen where Olga was ironing table-cloths. 
“ Mr. Stuart is here, Olga,” she said, trying to speak 
in a natural tone. “ We’ll have to have lunch for 
him after a while.” She had told Olga that she was 
going to be out, and that there would be no luncheon 
to get. 


Grandfather s Day 195 

u Yes, Miss Isabel,” said the good-natured Swe- 
dish girl, without looking up from her work. 

Isabel stood with her hand on the ice-box door. 
She was thinking, “ I don’t believe grandfather’ll 
mind if I ask him to sit on the porch and read the 
magazines. Old people don’t care much about hav- 
ing a good time. They like just sitting still.” 

She took out the pitcher of lemonade, and brought 
a glass and a tray from the pantry. “ It will be all 
right,” she decided. “ I’ll tell him that he’ll have 
to entertain himself.” 

She put the full glass on the tray, and returned 
the big pitcher to the ice-box. Then she stood still 
again. “ Perhaps it would be mean,” she hesitated. 
“ Grandfather does a great many things for us.” 
And then she went on thinking, “ I ought to do some 
sort of penance, I suppose, for being so detestable 
about Fanny’s losing my ring, and the other times 
that I’ve been inconsiderate and unkind.” But this 
made her indignant with herself. “ The idea of 
calling your own grandfather a penance, Isabel 
Carleton,” she murmured. “ You ought to be 
dreadfully ashamed! ” 

Her face grew clear again. She took the lemon- 
ade to Mr. Stuart, who was glancing at the head- 
lines of the Chicago daily that lay on the table. 
“ I’m sorry to have been so slow, grandfather,” she 
smiled. “ Will you excuse me a minute, while I 
telephone? ” 

She shut the door into the telephone-closet, so that 


196 Isabel Carletoris Year 

her grandfather might not hear. There was a sob 
in her throat when she asked for the number, but 
when Caroline came to the telephone, her voice was 
steady. “ I’m awfully sorry,” she said, when she 
had explained; “ but you see how it is.” 

“Oh, dear! It’s a shame!” shrilled Caroline 
over the wire. “ You don’t know what you’re miss- 
ing. I’d ask you for some other time, but Aunt 
Imogene has to begin packing just as soon as the 
girls leave.” 

“ I hope you haven’t anything else to do? ” asked 
grandfather anxiously, when she came back to the 
sitting-room. He had noticed for the first time a 
kind of “ party ” freshness about the girl’s white 
frock. “ Old people are always upsetting young peo- 
ple’s plans.” 

“ No, I haven’t a thing, grandfather,” said Isabel, 
coming to stand beside his chair. “ And I’ve 
thought of something that perhaps you’ll like to do. 
They’ve just put in a new exhibit at the Historical 
Museum. Father says that there’s a wonderful lot 
of letters and documents and relics of the Civil War; 
he was just saying yesterday how much you’d enjoy 
seeing them. We could go up there for a while, 
before lunch.” 

Mr. Stuart assented delightedly. He had been in 
the War himself, as a young lad, toward the close 
of the Rebellion. 

They had not far to go to the Museum. Grand- 
father pored over the yellowed clippings and the 
faded scrawls in the glass cases, stopping now and 


197 


Grandfather s Day 

then to explain something about one of them, or to 
relate an incident of camp life. All at once he ut- 
tered an exclamation. 

“ Why, here’s a letter from Jim Challice,” he 
cried. “Well! well! Jim Challice, of all things! 
He was in my Company — we fought in the battle 
of Cold Harbor together.” The old man was 
flushed with excitement. “ Read it, Isabel,” he 
urged eagerly. “ Your eyes are better than mine.” 

Isabel was excited too. “ It was written just be- 
fore that battle, I think,” she said, running through 
the letter. “ It says something about Sam Stuart. 
Was that really you, grandpa?” 

“Yes, yes! Of course!” cried grandfather. 
“Who else? Dear me! Those were thrilling 
times.” They bent over the case together. “ I 
lost all track of Jim,” Mr. Stuart went on. “ He 
was wounded and sent home, and then his people 
moved away, and I went to Iowa myself. I heard 
he had gone to Australia — and then I never could 
find out anything more about him.” 

“ His daughter gave this group of letters,” said 
Isabel, who had been reading the labels on the pa- 
pers. “ ‘ Donated by Mrs. Alonzo Hale, daughter 
of James Challice, Elwood, Minnesota.’ Why, 
grandfather, here’s a clipping that tells about him. 
He’s living with his daughter. You can go to see 
him — it isn’t very far ! ” 

They lingered for some time, reading the letters 
carefully, and verifying the incidents from grand- 
father’s excellent memory. All the way home and 


Isabel Carletons Year 


198 

at luncheon, they were talking of the happy discov- 
ery that they had made. Olga had set the table on 
the screened side-porch, which was shaded with vines ; 
and there were escalloped potatoes, and cold roast 
ham, and salad, and hot roll-jelly-cake. 

“ I remember Master Stuart like yelly-cake,” said 
Olga modestly, “ and my fire was goin’, so I yoost 
make a little.” Grandfather was pleased and grate- 
ful when he discovered this thoughtful attention. 

After luncheon, Isabel showed her grandfather 
her new kodak-book, and they inspected the garden 
in the back yard, and Mr. Stuart explained very spe- 
cifically how to get rid of the worms on the rose- 
bushes. Then Isabel said suddenly, “ I think it 
would be fun to take a ride around the lake, don’t 
you, Daddy-Long-Legs?” 

And again the old man was only too happy to go. 
The little steamer was never crowded at this time 
of day, and they had good seats under the red-and- 
white awning. The breeze was cool, though the 
heat made the air quiver above the blue-green water. 
The shore in the distance was hazy and irregular, 
and above the trees rose the domes of the old State 
Hospital, that always looked so much more pictur- 
esque than they really were. 

“ It’s simply fine to have you here,” said Isabel, 
squeezing her grandfather’s hand. “ I love to go 
out skylarking with you.” The look of affection 
and pleasure that the old man turned upon her was 
a compensation for the sight of any number of Paris 
marvels in silk and linen. “ I don’t care,” said the 


Grandfather s Day 199 

girl to herself, u the flummeries aren’t worth hurt- 
ing anybody’s feelings for.” 

The trip took two hours and a half, but there was 
always something to see. The shores were lined 
with summer cottages, and people kept getting on 
and off, dragging queer bundles and saying funny 
things. At one little booth on the water’s edge, the 
boat stayed long enough for the two voyagers to 
eat some ice-cream. Grandfather was in great 
spirits, and told amusing stories about the calves and 
the young pigs; and the odd manners of the neigh- 
bours, and the way grandmother got on with the 
strangely behaved new “ hired girl,” Melissy. 

The time went so speedily that they were surprised 
when they found themselves back at the pier from 
which they had started. But, once more at home, 
they were glad to sit on the porch and rest. 

Then Isabel had an inspiration. “ I know what 
I’m going to do,” she cried, jumping up. “ I’m 
going to ask Professor Lenner’s father in for din- 
ner. You’ll just love him, Grandpa Stuart. He’s 
so jolly, and he tells the funniest stories. You know 
the Lenners live just behind us, on the other side of 
the block.” She ran to the telephone, to give the 
invitation, which old Mr. Lenner accepted on the 
spot. 

Isabel had a bowl of red peonies on the table, and 
the candles with red shades; and there were funny 
Japanese favours, left over from father’s birthday, 
and some verses that Isabel had scribbled while she 
was combing her hair before dinner. 


200 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


Olga had baked a fresh white-fish — which grand- 
father couldn’t get every day, since he lived so far in 
the country — and there was a cream pie with 
meringue on top. 

The two old men became the best of friends at 
once. Mr. Lenner told his wittiest tales, and grand- 
father capped them with hilarious anecdotes of the 
time when he was a State Senator in Iowa. To Isa- 
bel, serving the fish and pouring the coffee, the group 
seemed very festive indeed, and she felt something 
of the satisfaction of the young hostess who sees her 
first dinner-party turning out a success. 

Isabel went to the station with grandfather for 
the eight o’clock train : She could come back quickly 
and safely in the trolley. They had a few minutes 
to wait at the station, and they stood out on the 
platform in the glow of the arc lights. “ I’ve had 
a ‘ perfectly scrumptious ’ time, as you girls say,” 
said Mr. Stuart; “ and now I’m going to tell you 
something: I haven’t been feeling very well lately, 
and I got wretchedly tired of looking after the farm 
all day, and then just sitting on the porch and read- 
ing magazines. I didn’t know what was the matter 
with me. I told your grandmother about it this 
morning, and she said, ‘ Why, Samuel Stuart, what 
you want is a good time ! ’ And she bundled me 
right off to the train.” He laughed his clear, happy 
laugh that Isabel had always liked to hear. “ And 
I guess she was right,” he added. “ I feel a thou- 
sand per cent, better. Old people need their good 
times just as much as young folks, I believe — more, 



“ It was lovely of you to come,” she said feelingly, “ and 
it has been beautiful to have you so much to myself.” 
Page 201. 












201 


Grandfather's Day 

too, perhaps, because they haven’t so many years to 
have a good time in ” There was a kind of sadness 
in the happy light in grandfather’s eyes. 

Isabel’s heart contracted with a quick pain. 
“Oh!” she thought to herself, with a mixture of 
horror and thankfulness, “ what if I had asked 
grandfather to sit on the porch and read the maga- 
zines ! Oh, how dreadful ! ” 

The train was gliding into the station, and she 
kissed her grandfather, with tears in her eyes. u It 
was lovely of you to come,” she said feelingly, “ and 
it’s been beautiful to have you so much to myself.” 

Mr. Stuart kissed her, and jumped to the car-step 
like a boy. He waved his straw hat to her, as the 
train steamed away into the dusk. 

The next day, Caroline Harper stopped on the 
porch for a minute on her way down town. “ You 
certainly missed something yesterday, Isabel,” she 
said. “ The girls were in raptures over the things; 
and we had a perfectly grand time.” 

“ So did I,” answered Isabel. 

Caroline looked up quickly. u Why, I thought 
you said your grandfather was visiting you,” she 
said. 

“ He was,” Isabel responded. 

“ Then I don’t see how you could have a very 
good time,” commented Caroline, taking up the pink 
parasol that Aunt Imogene had given her. 

“ Well, I can’t explain,” said Isabel quietly. 


CHAPTER XV 


LOSINGS AND FINDINGS 

“TTELLO!” said a small voice from the 
X X piazza. 

“ Hello! ” answered Isabel running to the door. 
“Oh, here’s our nice Billy-Boy!” she exclaimed. 
“ How are you this morning, Mr. William 
Mitchell?” 

“ Pwitty well,” responded the child gravely. 
He wore a blue “ Oliver Twist ” suit, with short 
white stockings. His hair, like straw-coloured silk, 
was ruffled in the wind, and his cheeks were flushed 
with romping. “ Muvver says come in few-few 
minutes,” he vouchsafed, looking up solemnly at 
Isabel. He had a red Japanese box in his hands, 
and he was slipping the cover up and down 
ecstatically. 

“ Come right in, honey-love, and give me a good 
hug,” said Isabel, opening the screen door and 
catching the child up in her arms. He put his arms 
around her neck and kissed her, for he and “ Yiz- 
buh,” as he called her, were the best of friends. 

“ Few-few minutes,” he gurgled, as if the phrase 
pleased him. 

“Want cooky?” asked Isabel, gazing lovingly 
into the big blue eyes. “ Billy-Boy want cooky?” 

202 


203 


Losings and Findings 

“ Um-huh!” 

“ I’ll ask Billy-Boy’s muvver. Get on my shoul- 
ders, and I’ll be horsey.” She put him on her back, 
where he clung shrieking with delight, while she 
pranced and neighed her way to the telephone. 

Mrs. Mitchell gave consent, and soon the little 
lad was settled contentedly on the sofa in the sit- 
ting-room, nibbling a cooky, and placidly scattering 
crumbs on the rugs. He had put his lacquered box 
on the mahogany table near the sofa. 

“ Now Billy-Boy sit still, little-little while,” 
coaxed Isabel. “ Horsey has to go up stairs.” 

“Um-huh!” Billy nodded beatifically, munching 
the cooky. 

It was nearly time for the French lesson, and 
Isabel wanted to change her shoes and tuck up some 
straggling locks. Somehow she always wished to 
look her best for Monsieur. She hurried up stairs, 
and dashed back again as quickly as she could. On 
her return, the cooky was gone, and Billy-Boy was 
sitting stolidly on the sofa, holding the box in his 
small smeary hands. 

“ Billy-Boy go home now,” he announced, raising 
his eyes to Isabel’s. “ Show muvver. Pwitty.” 

“All right, sweetheart,” assented Isabel; “ Billy- 
Boy go now. Come again soon. Kiss me ! Come 
again ! ” 

With a hurried peck on her cheek, the child was 
off, swaying unsteadily down the steps, and cuddling 
his red box. 

Just as Billy-Boy reached the gate, Monsieur ar- 


204 


Isabel Garleton’s Year 


rived. His foreign-looking clothes, though far 
from new, were neat and spotless, his hat was 
jaunty, his tie sober and correct, his moustache very 
trim. Isabel stood looking at him dreamily, with- 
out speaking. 

“Bon jour, Mademoiselle! ” 

“ Bon jour, Monsieur, ” the girl answered, start- 
ing. 

“II fait beau temps, West ce pas?” 

“ Mais oui, Monsieur! ” 

He came in, and they sat down at the table in the 
sitting room. Isabel was thinking how gentle and 
serious his eyes were, and how his teeth flashed when 
he smiled, which was not often. 

Mrs. Carleton was detained up stairs with an im- 
portunate dressmaker; but now Isabel did not in the 
least mind being alone with Monsieur. The lesson 
began, and had just got under way, when Celia 
was heard crying loudly in the kitchen. 

“ Pardonnez-moi,” interrupted Isabel, and hur- 
ried to the kitchen, where she found Olga picking 
up the fragments of a favourite doll’s teapot, which 
Celia had been carrying to a dolls’ picnic in the back 
yard. “ Oh, I thought she was hurt,” said Isabel, 
consoling Celia at the same time with pats and 
kisses. “Never mind! Sister’ll get you another 
one when she goes down town. Use this nice little 
pitcher, and make lemonade. The dolls’ll be just 
as well pleased.” 

Celia, pacified by the privilege of squeezing the 
lemon, wiped her tears, and Isabel returned to her 


Losings and Findings 205 

lesson. She explained to Monsieur the nature of 
the accident. 

“ Quel dommage! ” His brown eyes expressed 
amiable grief. 

All the time that he was drilling her in her ir- 
regular verbs, she was thinking how very good 
looking he was, “ just a trifle sad — and so appeal- 
ing! ” Unconsciously she began contrasting him 
with Rodney Fox. Beside him Rodney seemed very 
young and outspoken, and lacking in the graces of 
the man of the world. Rodney was healthy and 
fresh-faced and frank-eyed, and Monsieur was pale 
and interesting and reserved. One knew all about 
Rodney — there was nothing mysterious nor ro- 
mantic about him. He was nice — oh, ever so nice 
— except when he got cross and unreasonable about 
things that didn’t concern him. But this man was 
perplexing and fascinating; he had seen so many 
strange foreign things, and known so many odd 
foreign people — and who knew what he was think- 
ing, behind all that punctilious politeness of his? 

Isabel stumbled on the verbs. Monsieur cor- 
rected her gently. 

“ How can you be so patient with my stupidity? ” 
she exclaimed. 

“ That is what I am here for, Mademoiselle.” 

He didn’t even deny that she was stupid! Some- 
how, he was, for all his mystery, so honest, so mild 
and courteous, that she felt herself liking him very 
much, and hoping vaguely that he liked her. 

They talked about a French story that she was 


206 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


reading, and while they were conversing he looked 
into her eyes so steadily that she felt her colour 
rising in spite of herself. 

Presently the hour was over, and he was gather- 
ing up his books to go; Olga came into the room to 
say, “ Your mother wants to see you a minute, Miss 
Isabel, and she says the yentleman wait.” 

Isabel ran up stairs. Her mother was standing 
before a long glass and the seamstress was pinning 
up the hem of a skirt. 

“ Ask Monsieur to come for tea on Thursday,” 
Mrs. Carleton said hurriedly. “ I’m having some 
French Department people in. It may help him 
to get his position.” 

“ Yes, mother,” and Isabel ran lightly down 
stairs again. 

The young man flushed, his teeth gleaming while 
he reiterated, “Merci, Mademoiselle — tell your 
mother merci beaucoup.” And then in a mopient 
he was gone. 

Isabel, sitting on the sofa, thinking about him, 
was rather irritated when she heard Rodney Fox’s 
whistle — their old high-school signal — from the 
gate. Imagine Monsieur D’Albert whistling at one 
in that childish way! 

She went very slowly to let Rodney in. He sat 
down, frowning gloomily. “ I saw that French fop 
coming down the street with his books under his 
arm,” he said. “ I suppose you’ve been having a 
lesson.” 

“ Yes, I have,” Isabel replied briefly. 


207 


Losings and Findings 

A silence. Rodney’s frown deepened. 

“ Is your mother in? ” he asked abruptly. 

“ Yes. She’s been upstairs all the morning with 
the dressmaker.” The girl took a kind of spiteful 
pleasure in saying this. 

“ Oh ! ” said Rodney shortly. 

There was silence again. 

Isabel, idly wondering what there was to say next, 
let her eyes wander to a blue pottery bowl on the 
table, that had not yet been filled with flowers. She 
remembered putting something into the bowl a while 
before. She started up with an exclamation. 

“ What is it? ” asked Rodney. 

“ Oh, my coral necklace! ” she cried. 

“ What about it? ” 

“ Oh, my necklace — the one that grandmother 
gave me for Commencement!” 

“ Well, what’s the matter? What’s happened to 
it?” 

“ It’s gone. I put it into this bowl this morning. 
I was going to show father that the clasp was loose, 
and that it ought to be repaired — and some one 
called me, and I put it in there.” 

“ Now it’s gone? ” Rodney peered into the bowl, 
as if he expected to see the necklace there, in spite 
of its disappearance. 

“ Yes. Where could it have gone to?” 

“You’re sure you didn’t take it out?” 

“ Of course, I’m perfectly sure.” 

“ Perhaps your mother did.” 

“ No; she hasn’t been down stairs since.” 


208 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


“Or Fanny—” 

“ She stayed at Anna Paul’s last night, and hasn’t 
come home yet.” 

“ Olga might—” 

“ She’s been in the kitchen all the morning.” 

They looked perplexedly at each other. Isabel’s 
lip trembled. “ Oh! ” she gasped, “ I hope it isn’t 
lost ! ” 

And then the same thought struck both of them 
at once. It was Rodney who spoke: “Was that 
Frenchman in here alone?” 

“ Y-yes,” stammered Isabel. “ But oh, Rod, you 
can’t suspect him. He’s so nice and polite ! ” 

“ Politeness doesn’t prevent some other things.” 

“ Oh, but I couldn’t — oh, no! ” Isabel was hor- 
rified. 

“ I could. You say he was here alone. 
When?” 

“ Well, let me see. Celia broke her doll’s tea- 
pot, and I went out to the kitchen for a moment. 
And then mother sent for me to come up stairs, but 
I was only gone a minute or two.” 

“ It wouldn’t take more than a second — ” 

“ But, Rodney, he wouldn’t — it’s too awful. 
Oh, dear! what a time I have with my jewels,” she 
laughed with tears in her eyes. “ I no more than 
succeed in getting something than it is spirited 
away.” 

“ Might be pretty substantial spirits.” 

“ But I tell you, he wouldn’t do such a thing! ” 


Losings and Findings 209 

“ How do you know? I never liked him any- 
way.” 

“ I know you didn’t. You always wanted to find 
out something dreadful about him.” 

“ It’s no such thing; but you can see for yourself 
that it looks rather bad for him.” 

“ I won’t believe it, Rodney Fox! ” 

Just then Mrs. Carleton came into the room. 
She stopped, and looked inquiringly at the two 
young people. “What! Quarreling?” she said, 
amazed. Rodney and Isabel never spoke to each 
other in such tones. 

“ Oh, mother,” Isabel burst out, “ Rodney thinks 
that Monsieur D’Albert has stolen it!” 

“Stolen! What?” 

“ My necklace. It’s gone. It was here in the 
bowl, — you didn’t take it out, did you? ” 

“ No. But perhaps Olga did.” 

“ Ask her, mother.” 

But Olga knew nothing about the necklace. 

“ It’s very queer,” said Mrs. Carleton, with a 
line between her eyebrows. “ Didn’t you put it 
somewhere else, Isabel?” 

“ Why, I’m sure I didn’t, mother.” 

“ Oh, well, it will turn up,” said Mrs. Carleton, 
her face clearing. “ There’s no use in worrying 
about it.” 

“ Somebody’s taken it,” said Isabel with convic- 
tion. “ You know it was quite valuable, mother, 
because it’s so old, and because it has all that beau- 


210 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


tiful carving and the pearls — ” Her voice broke, 
and she wiped her eyes. The necklace had never 
seemed so lovely before. 

“ Probably he’s hard up,” said Rodney. 

“ He sat right there by the table,” admitted Isabel 
wretchedly. 

“ Well, well,” repeated Mrs. Carleton, “ we shall 
have to wait and see what happens. There’s no 
doubt a good reason for it’s not being here. It 
may be that your father can solve the mystery.” 

Rodney went away, looking, as Isabel hysterically 
asserted, like a moving-picture Sherlock. Mrs. 
Carleton returned to the dressmaker, and Isabel 
wandered about the house, peeping into all sorts of 
nooks and crannies, hunting for the lost ornament. 
“ I thought my troubles were over when I got my 
ring back,” she groaned. “ But I do believe that 
thinking about one trouble brings on another.” 

Professor Carleton, coming home late for lunch, 
knew nothing of the whereabouts of the necklace. 
“ But we can’t accuse any gentleman of taking it,” 
he said, looking shocked at the mention of Monsieur 
D’Albert’s name. “ Really, that’s out of the ques- 
tion.” 

But the necklace did not appear, either on that 
day or the next. 

“ Mother, it does look as if he might have taken 
it, doesn’t it? ” said Isabel in a low tone, as she and 
Mrs. Carleton were spreading sandwiches for the 
tea on Thursday. “ I suppose he’s very poor — he 
as good as told you so — and perhaps he was in 


Losings and Findings 21 1 

need of money, and he saw the thing there in the 
bowl. — It was my fault as much as his, for leaving 
it there.” 

“ It does seem to be against him,” murmured 
Mrs. Carleton, setting out the green Sedji cups, and 
getting a plate for the sandwiches. “ I really don’t 
feel that I can face the man, suspecting him of such 
a thing.” 

“ It is hard, isn’t it? ” 

u And of course, if he did do it,” Mrs. Carleton 
went on, with a hurt puzzled look in her eyes, “ he 
ought not to be taken into the French Department. 
I am afraid that we shall have to tell Professor 
Rambeau.” 

“ Oh, dear. Could you do that ? Monsieur 
seems so awfully nice, mother,” said Isabel for the 
twentieth time. 

“ Yes, dear, but you never can tell,” replied Mrs. 
Carleton wearily. 

She and Isabel went on, without saying anything, 
getting out the tea-napkins, and putting the iced 
cakes into the wicker basket, and filling the sugar- 
bowl and the cream pitcher. 

Suddenly they heard the screen door slam, and 
looked up in surprise to see Mrs. Mitchell coming 
bareheaded through the hall. She had dashed in 
excitedly without stopping to ring. Her plump face 
was pale and her curling brown hair slightly dis- 
heveled. 

“ Oh, Mrs. Carleton, I’m so sorry!” she cried. 

“ Sorry? Why? ” Mrs. Carleton stood with a 


212 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


bunch of tea-spoons in her hand, and Isabel set the 
cream pitcher down very hard on the table. 

“ i\bout Billy-Boy. Why didn’t you tell me you 
had missed it? ” 

“ Missed what? ” 

“ Isabel’s necklace. I didn’t discover it till this 
minute. Billy-Boy had it in his red box. He must 
have taken it when he was over here on Tuesday. 
Where was it? ” 

Isabel, with a very red face, was staring at her 
mother. “ It was on the table, in the blue bowl,” 
she said slowly. “ Oh, Mummy, I forgot about 
Billy-Boy’s being here ! ” 

“ He put the box down when he came in, because 
Hally Comstock was there with her dog. And 
Mary set the box on a shelf, and we never found 
what was in it till just now.” 

u Oh-h! ” Mrs. Carleton and Isabel both gave 
sighs of relief. 

“ Of course you must have missed it? ” 
u Yes, but—” 

u I hope you didn’t suspect any of your friends 1 ” 
“Well — we scarcely knew what to think.” 

“ I’m as sorry as I can be,” groaned Mrs. 
Mitchell. “ What shall I do with my bad 
boy?” 

“ Give him a kiss for us,” laughed Isabel. 
“ He’s the dearest thing I know.” 

“ It’s all right, Mrs. Mitchell,” said Mrs. Carle- 
ton. “ We’re perfectly happy about it.” 

“ I must go now,” said Mrs. Mitchell, laying the 


Losings and Findings 213 

necklace down on the table. “ I was just dressing 
for a trip in the car. Do forgive the muddling 
Mitchells, won’t you? ” 

“ Of course ! ” exclaimed Isabel and her mother 
together. 

When the caller had gone, they looked at each 
other with mixed expressions. “ Oh, mother! I’m 
so ashamed! ” said Isabel. 

“ So am I,” answered Mrs. Carleton. “ I’m 
humiliated to death.” 

“ We ought to have known he wouldn’t.” 

“ We did know it, really, but we let our judgment 
be overruled by the looks of things.” 

“ What if we had told Professor Rambeau ! ” 

“ I can only thank Heaven that we didn’t.” 

Isabel took up the necklace, and pressed it to her 
cheek lovingly. “ Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come 
back!” she whispered. “And now,” she said 
aloud, “ I’m going to telephone to Rod Fox. He 
was the one that put the idea into my head at first. 
He wanted Monsieur to be guilty.” 

“Oh, Rod!” she exclaimed, when she had told 
Rodney about Billy-Boy, “ I think we were horrible 
to entertain such thoughts for a minute.” 

“ I don’t mind saying that I’m terribly ashamed,” 
said Rodney. “ I’ve been feeling like a sneak ever 
since, — as badly as if I’d stolen the thing myself. 
I was just — well, you know, Isabel, I rather 
thought that — that you — that he — I don’t know 
what was the matter with me. I was just plain fool, 
I guess! ” 


214 


Isabel Garletoris Year 


“ We all were. Even mother was guilty of sus- 
pecting him.” 

“ I feel as if I ought to apologise to him,” said 
Rodney. 

“ Oh, mercy, no ! That would be too awful. 
He must never know what shocking things we 
thought about him. But I’ll see that he has an 
extra helping of cake this afternoon. The guests’ll 
be arriving in a minute. I must go.” 

Monsieur D’Albert, with his quiet assurance, his 
perfect accent, and his faultless manners, quite won 
the heart of Professor Rambeau. 

On Friday, when Monsieur came for the lesson, 
his teeth were flashing in smiles. “ I must tell Ma- 
dame and Mademoiselle,” he said, “ that Professor 
Rambeau has engaged me for teaching French this 
autumn in the University.” 

“ We’re very, very happy to hear it, Monsieur,” 
Mrs. Carleton replied heartily. 

“Indeed we are I” echoed Isabel. 

“ And,” said the young man shyly, “ I have cabled 
my fiancee. We had it arranged — if I could find a 
place, she was to come over. We shall be married 
in September.” 

“ That’s very beautiful, Monsieur,” said Mrs. 
Carleton. “ We rejoice in your good fortune.” 

“ Beaucoup de felicitations! ” stammered Isabel, 
whose cheeks had grown very red. 

“ Merci, Madame et Mademoiselle” replied 
Monsieur D’Albert bowing. “ And now we shall 
begin the lesson, shall we not? ” 


Losings and Findings 215 

All through the lesson, Isabel was thinking, 
“ How glad I am that I wasn’t silly enough to fall 
in love with him ! ” And a voice away down in her 
heart piped up tauntingly, “ Aha, miss ! you had a 
pretty close shave ! ” 


CHAPTER XVI 


A TRIP TO THE FARM 

P ROFESSOR Carleton put the ticket into Isa- 
bel’s hand. “ Now, everything is attended 
to,” he said, “ and all you have to do is to enjoy 
the scenery till you get to Dalton. Here’s your 
magazine. And don’t lose your ticket.” 

Isabel laughed. “ I’ll cling to it like mad,” she 
assured him. “ But you know, Popsey Professor, 
I’m not six years old any more ! ” Indeed, she 
looked very much the young lady in her suit of 
coarse blue linen, and her white hat with its wreath 
of blue corn-flowers. 

“ I never can remember that you aren’t a little 
girl,” sighed Professor Carleton with a guilty look. 
“ It doesn’t seem so very long since I was carrying 
you around on my arm.” 

“ You’d have some difficulty in doing it now,” 
said the girl. “ Oh, there’s the train whistling, 
away down the track.” 

“ Give our regards to grandmother and grand- 
father, and tell them we’ll be out before long.” 

u Yes, yes! I’m saving a good hug for each of 
them. And here comes my chariot of fire, or my 
fiery dragon, rather.” 


216 


217 


A Trip to the Farm 

The train came panting up to the platform. It 
always seemed to Isabel like some live creature rag- 
ing through the country, blustering and hooting, and 
trying to make itself out a great deal worse than it 
was. 

She had never been allowed to travel much alone, 
but the journey out to Dalton was only an hour’s 
ride, and she was sure to be quite safe. Her father 
kissed her, and helped her up the steps. As the 
train moved out of the station, she waved her hand 
to the gentleman of forty-five who stood on the plat- 
form with his hat raised. 

“ Father’s always so polite and dear,” said Isabel 
to herself. “ He raises his hat to me as if I were 
a duchess ! ” 

She arranged her handbag and her magazine on 
the seat, but she was too much interested to read. 
In front of her was a country bride in bright blue 
silk and a very lacy hat with violently pink roses on 
it. The bride giggled as a shower of rice fell from 
her hat to the floor. The bridegroom, in stiff 
clothes and a red necktie, looked very uncomfort- 
able. He was smiling sheepishly, and his face was 
covered with perspiration. 

A little girl of four, across the aisle, was whining, 
and being scolded by her mother, who had a fretful 
baby in her arms. The little girl’s lip was quiver- 
ing, and she put her face down on the seat, mutter- 
ing rebelliously. 

Isabel wondered what she ought to do. “ I sup- 
pose the poor child is tired and cross,” she said. 


2l8 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


She looked out of the window at the scattered 
houses and the yellow stubble of the wheat-fields. 
There were bits of home life divertingly visible 
when the train passed a farm or a village : two chil- 
dren playing with a shaggy dog; a fluffy grey kitten 
sitting on a fence-post, staring at the train; an old 
lady plucking a white duck in a grape-arbour; three 
farmers trying to pull a cow out of a mirehole, near 
a lake. “ It’s just like seeing pictures in a gallery, 
only so much more interesting,” thought the young 
traveller. 

She turned again to the child across the aisle, who 
was dirty and forlorn-looking. Isabel leaned for- 
ward into the aisle. “ Mayn’t she come and sit 
with me?” she asked. 

The woman looked up crossly, but when she met 
the frank grey eyes under the corn-flowers, her face 
softened. “ She’s a bad girl, that’s what she is,” 
she said sharply. “ She ought to see that I have all 
I can do to keep this young one from squalling. I 
tell her I’ll give her a good smack if she don’t be- 
have.” 

Isabel smiled. A “ smack ” to her had always 
been a kiss — nothing so very bad from one’s 
mother. She held out her hand to the little girl. 
“ Come and look out of my window,” she coaxed. 
“ There are ever so many nice things over here.” 

“ She’s too dirty, I’m afraid,” protested the 
mother. “ I scold her for not keeping herself 
clean, but it’s no use.” 

“ I’m sure, when I was her age, I didn’t keep 


219 


A Trip to the Farm 

clean, either,” Isabel answered. “ I’ll wash her 
face, if she’ll let me.” She took a clean handker- 
chief from her bag, wet it at the faucet, and wiped 
the smudgy face. Then she wrapped the damp 
handkerchief in a leaf torn from the magazine, and 
put it back into her bag. “There now! ” she ex- 
claimed, “ you look as nice as can be.” 

The child was really very pretty now that the soil 
of travel and the frown of naughtiness had disap- 
peared. Isabel found one of Olga’s lemon-cookies 
for her, and the child rode contentedly at the win- 
dow, crowing with delight at the scenes that Isabel 
pointed out to her. 

There was a mother-pig in a pasture, with a row 
of baby pigs running after her; and a flock of sheep, 
too; and a boy fishing, with a lunch-basket beside 
him; a group of children waving at the train from 
the top of a low wood-shed; and a horse afraid of 
the train, shying and snorting as the monster 
passed, while the owner of the beast held the bridle, 
and a frightened woman clung to the seat of the 
carriage. 

At the country stations, people got on and off, 
and children being dragged up the aisle stared at 
the little girl on Isabel’s lap. There was no lack of 
interest or amusement, and it seemed a strangely 
short time before the brakeman was calling, “ Dal- 
ton the next station! Don’t forget your umbrellas 
and parcels ! ” 

Isabel took the little girl back to her mother. 
The baby had gone to sleep, and was tucked up on 


220 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


the seat. The mother’s face looked less harsh and 
worried than it had looked before. She smiled 
gratefully at Isabel. “Thank you — you’re a 
good girl,” she said in her blunt way. 

Isabel, flushing with pleasure, gathered up her 
belongings and got off the train, with a wave of 
good-bye to the child she had befriended. Grand- 
father Stuart was waiting on the platform, in his 
linen duster and straw hat. He kissed her as she 
came down the steps. u Give me a good smack,” 
the girl laughed mysteriously. The covered car- 
riage was standing behind the yellow-painted sta- 
tion. They had a three miles’ ride to take to the 
farm. 

“ Did you have an exciting trip? ” asked grand- 
father, when they were well started on their way. 

Isabel told him about the “ good smack,” and the 
cross little girl, and how good the child had been 
as soon as some one was interested in her. “ I 
don’t see how anyone can be unkind to a child, do 
you, grandfather?” 

“ Well, they’re pretty trying sometimes,” said 
Mr. Stuart with a twinkle in his eye. “ I remember 
one time when you were a little bit of a thing, you 
took a notion you wouldn’t have your shoes on, — 
screamed and kicked and made a great to-do. It 
seems you had seen some youngster or other with 
red shoes, and you had a notion you couldn’t live 
without red shoes, too. I recollect that I scoured 
the town for red shoes, but I couldn’t get any your 


221 


A Trip to the Farm 

size. Your mother said it was bad discipline for 
you to have them anyway.” 

“ I was an obstinate little tyke, wasn’t I? ” Isabel 
chuckled. “ And I haven’t got entirely over it yet. 
Well, I suppose I had my shoes on sooner or later, 
didn’t I ? ” She poked a slender foot in a tan pump 
from under the lap-robe. 

“ Yes. Toward evening you took up your black 
shoes, and said, ‘ Nice shoes, pretty shoes,’ and put 
them on like a lamb, and called me to button them.” 

“ I’m glad I didn’t keep on shouting for red shoes 
indefinitely,” said Isabel. “ That’s where Mr. 
Coles lives, isn’t it?” She indicated a small grey 
house nearly covered with vines. 

“Yes; his boy David broke his leg the other day, 
falling out of a cherry-tree. Hard on the poor 
chap. Look! there he is now, sitting on the side 
porch with his leg up on a chair.” Mr. Stuart 
waved his whip at the boy, who waved back, very 
shyly. 

“Too bad, isn’t it?” sighed Isabel. 

They crossed the trout-stream that somewhat 
further on wandered through grandfather’s land; 
and then passed a pond where lilies were spread 
thickly on the water. Away across the fields there 
was a red brick house standing rather bleakly by 
itself on a hill. 

“That’s the poor-house, isn’t it?” said Isabel. 
“What is it they call it around here? I’ve for- 
gotten.” 


222 


Isabel Carletons Year 


“ Sanders’s,” Mr. Stuart replied absently. “ A 
man named Sanders runs it. Somehow, I never like 
to think about it.” 

“ It isn’t very cheerful,” assented Isabel. “ Ah! 
there’s a house that I do like to think about, 
though!” 

As they turned a curve in the road, they saw be- 
fore them a big white house surrounded by oak 
trees. The house was simple but dignified and 
roomy, with green blinds, and lightning-rods on the 
gables. 

Grandmother was at the open window when they 
came up. They drove through the wagon-gate, and 
around to the side door. Isabel jumped out without 
waiting for grandfather to help her, and there was 
a good deal of kissing and laughing as she went into 
the house. 

The dinner-table was set in the darkened dining- 
room, where there were screen doors to keep out 
the flies, and sprays of asparagus in vases on the 
mantel. 

Melissy, the “ hired girl,” a thin young woman 
with a sharp chin, was bustling about, bringing in the 
mashed potato and roast lamb. u Isabel, this is 
Melissy, who is a great comfort to me,” said grand- 
mother, pausing on her way up stairs with the guest. 

“ How do you do, Melissy?” said Isabel cor- 
dially. 

“ Pleased to meet you,” said Melissy with a half- 
defiant nod. She prided herself on “ never knuck- 
ling under to nobody.” This fair-haired young 


223 


A Trip to the Farm 

person in the hat with the blue flowers on it must 
not think that she was any better than a self-respect- 
ing girl who “ worked out.” 

But when she had noted Isabel’s plain tucked 
blouse, and her simple manners, and heard her 
praise of the raspberry shortcake, Melissy decided 
that the visitor was not to be scorned, and treated 
her with acid pleasantry thereafter. 

Isabel’s ten days on the farm were very happy. 
Every morning she took care of her room, and 
wiped the dishes for Melissy, and filled the vases 
with asparagus or with flowers. And she read 
French aloud for half an hour, and practiced French 
verbs for fifteen minutes. Then the rest of the day 
she did as she chose. She wandered about the 
barns, hunting eggs, or watching the process of sep- 
arating and testing the milk, — a performance as 
elaborate and as careful as the making of an experi- 
ment in a laboratory. She led out the work-horses 
to drink, keeping well out of the way of their clumsy 
feet. She fed the chickens and the ducks, played 
with the puppies, and rode the black pony, Shorty. 
On rainy days she wrote letters to the people at 
home, and to Rodney, who was away at a wild lake 
in Northern Wisconsin, and who gave her thrilling 
accounts of his adventures. 

One day she and grandmother went to call on 
Mrs. Coles and the boy David, who had broken his 
leg. 

They found the lad, — a blue-eyed little fellow, 
with red hair that stood up straight, above the 


224 


Isabel Garleton’s Year 


freckles on his forehead, — sitting on the porch, the 
picture of lonesomeness and misery. “ He don’t 
have anybody to amuse him,” said Mrs. Coles re- 
gretfully. “ I’m that busy with the cooking and 
taking care of the baby that I can’t give him more’n 
a minute or two at a time, and his father has to be 
out in the field all day. It does seem hard, but I 
guess he’ll stand it.” She smiled hopefully down at 
the boy, who gave her a sad smile in return. 

“ I know some stories,” said Isabel hesitatingly. 
u Would you like to hear one, David? ” 

The boy looked at her eagerly, his face lighting 
up with interest. “ You bet I would,” he answered 
briefly. 

Grandmother went into the house, where she was 
soon helping Mrs. Coles to stone some cherries for 
canning; and Isabel was left to entertain the lad with 
very dramatic accounts of King Arthur and his 
Knights, and the humorous tale of the Elephant and 
his Trunk from the Just-So Stories. The absorbed 
attention of the listener inspired her to her most 
stirring tones and gestures. 

“ Golly, that was a dandy story ! ” was her reward 
after the last recital. “ It’s most as good as goin’ 
to the circus.” 

Isabel laughed, and proposed a game of checkers, 
and after that there were lemonade and round cakes 
with pink-frosting, that grandmother had brought. 

“ I’ll come again if you’ll let me,” said Isabel, 
as the boy said a reluctant good-bye. 


A Trip to the Farm 22$ 

“ I’d be awful thankful if you would,” he replied 
with anxious eagerness. 

u Yes, indeed, Miss Carleton,” put in the wor- 
ried mother. “ It’d be a blessing if you could, but 
we don’t want to ask too much of you.” 

“I’ll ride over on Shorty!” promised Isabel. 
“ And I’ll think up a lot more stories before I come.” 

And so nearly every day she had her canter on 
the pony to see the lonely boy, whose pleasure and 
gratitude were ample payment for her trouble. 
Then, toward the last, she had a little adventure 
with some of the inmates of the big red house across 
the fields. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Sanders’s 

I SABEL was standing on the side porch one 
afternoon, looking off across the fields and the 
gap in the wood-lot, toward the plain red brick 
building half a mile away. 

“ That’s Sanders’s, isn’t it, Melissy,” she called 
through the screen door — “ that brick house over 
there? ” 

“ Yes, that’s the poor-house,” answered Melissy, 
who was not in the habit of mincing her words. 
“ It’s queer how the folks around here call it just 
‘ Sanders’s.’ / call a spade a spade.” She was 
cleaning the dining-room, and Isabel could hear the 
swish of the mop over the paint. 

“Have you ever been there, Melissy?” asked 
Isabel, still looking across the fields. 

“Me? At the poor-house? Good land, no! 
What made you ask that? ” 

“ Oh, dear ! I only meant did you ever go there 
to look around? It must be awfully interesting.” 

“ I guess you wouldn’t think so if you was livin’ 
there,” replied Melissy drily. 

“ Aren’t they — aren’t they treated well? ” asked 
Isabel in a troubled voice. 

“ Oh, yes, I guess so,” Melissy responded, “ but 
226 


Sanders's 


227 


then, there’s a lot of ’em, an’ they’re most of ’em 
old, an’ they live awful plain, an’ — well, it ain’t 
what you’d call interestin’ exactly. I should think 
that the Lord had afflicted me quite some, if He 
called on me to go there. I knew an old lady that 
was sent there last year, and she did cry an’ take on 
somethin’ terrible.” 

Isabel cringed. She was not very good at hear- 
ing painful things. “ I think I’ll go for a walk, 
Melissy,” she said. “ Tell grandma if she asks 
about me.” 

“ Uh-huh,” answered Melissy, wringing out her 
mop. It was impossible to train her free spirit to 
make replies like Olga’s “ Yes, miss,” and “Yes, 
Miss Isabel.” 

Isabel walked out through the garden, and past 
the orchard, and down among the rows of corn, and 
then across the meadow, till she came to the bank of 
the stream that meandered through Mr. Stuart’s 
land. Here she stopped and looked about, and then 
picked and ate a few of the early dewberries, show- 
ing black and luscious among the vines. 

Sauntering along, she came to a place where the 
water was shallow, and the white sand and round 
yellow pebbles looked so inviting that she wondered 
whether there would be any harm in her taking off 
her shoes and stockings and dabbling her feet for 
a little while. 

She drew off one shoe, and then a crackling of the 
underbrush startled her. She waited a few minutes, 
but nobody came; reassured, she took off her shoes 


228 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


and stockings and recklessly paddled her feet in the 
cool water. Then she gathered up her skirts and 
waded about. The trees rose high above the 
stream, casting green shadows on the water. Pink 
and white fox-gloves stood straight and lovely on 
the bank. Now and then a kingfisher darted above 
the creek with a harsh cry. 

Suddenly the girl heard voices in the grove be- 
yond the foot-bridge that spanned the current. She 
scrambled to the shore, wiped her feet on her petti- 
coat, and hastily drew her stockings on over her 
damp ankles. And then she thought, “ Why, 
they’re only women’s voices anyway. I don’t need 
to be so scared.” She listened, and noticed that 
the voices were rising higher and higher in shrill 
complaint. 

Hurriedly tying the laces of her shoes, she rose, 
and rather timidly walked across the footbridge. 
Peeping through the bushes, she saw two old ladies, 
in dresses of faded grey print made just alike. 
One old lady was short and round and plump-faced, 
and the other was spare and taller, with a long 
wrinkled face and dull black eyes. The two women 
were standing under a tree on a knoll; their green 
gingham sun-bonnets, a small tin pail, and a parcel 
wrapped in newspaper lay on the ground. 

“ I told you to bring ’em,” the spare one was say- 
ing in tones of reproach. “ I said I’d get the sugar 
an’ the bread, if you’d get the other things. Why, 
I told you just as plain! ” 


Sanders’s 


229 


The stout one turned her face tremulously to her 
companion. “ Why, Letty,” she said, as if repeat- 
ing her only defence, “ I honestly thought, — I was 
sure you said you’d bring ’em.” 

“ I told you twice,” reiterated the thin woman. 
“ Oh, Anne ! Our picnic’s spoiled.” 

Tears began to trickle down the stout woman’s 
face. She sat down heavily, and wiped her eyes 
with the flounce of her green sun-bonnet. She was 
sniffling audiby. 

Isabel ran quickly up the path among the under- 
brush. “What is it?” she asked quietly. “Is 
anything the matter? ” 

For a moment the two old ladies were startled, 
and then they looked relieved, when they saw that 
their visitor was only a girl, with a bright face and 
steady grey eyes. 

“ It’s the matches,” wailed the stout woman, “ an’ 
the potatoes. Letty told me to bring ’em, an’ I 
got mixed up somehow, an’ forgot ’em.” 

“Forgot the potatoes?” asked Isabel in a 
puzzled voice. 

“No, the matches; we was goin’ to roast ’em, 
an’ now we can’t.” 

“ Oh, you were going to roast the potatoes, and 
you forgot the matches. Is that it? ” Isabel began 
to feel less distressed. 

“ Yes, that’s it,” said the taller woman, called 
Letty. “ It’s too far to go back an’ get ’em, an’ 
anyway, some one’d be sure to ask us what we 


230 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


wanted, and start objectin’. It’s awful hard to get 
anythin’ without explainin’ to everybody.” 

“ Oh, I can get you some matches in ten minutes,” 
laughed Isabel. “ I’d love to. Were you having 
a picnic? ” 

“ Yes, a real out-door picnic,” said the stout 
woman eagerly. “ This lady’s Mrs. Scott, an’ I’m 
Mrs. Frisby. We live over to Sanders’s — ” 

“ An’ we got so tired of never havin’ any fun at 
all,” the other one broke in, “ that I says to Anne 
this mornin’, when we was washin’ the dishes, I says, 
‘ Anne Frisby, when have we ever had any fun, I’d 
like to know? ’ ” 

“ An’ I says,” put in Mrs. Frisby, “ that folks 
that live at the — at Sanders’s ain’t expected to have 
any fun as I know of; an’ she says — ” 

“ I says if we don’t have any, it’s our own fault. 
They’s lots o’ good times to be had in the world, I 
says.” 

“ Well, they seem to keep out o’ our way, Letty 
Scott. We ain’t had much of ’em in the last five 
year.” 

“ I up and proposed a picnic,” said Mrs. Scott, 
her eyes getting brighter. “ I didn’t see no reason 
why we couldn’t have one.” 

“ Why, there isn’t any reason,” said Isabel. 
“ Now, I’m going to run right up to the house as 
fast as I can, and get the matches. I’m Mr. Stuart’s 
granddaughter — you may have seen Mr. Stuart, 
though he hasn’t lived here such a very long time.” 
The two old women nodded. “ If you can get the 


Sanders's 


231 


fire all ready to light by the time I come back, it 
will hurry things,” she said, turning back across 
the foot-bridge. 

She sped through the meadow and up among the 
corn-leaves, thinking, as she went, of what her 
grandfather had said to her not very long ago, 
“ Old people need their good times, just as much as 
young folks, — and more, perhaps, because they 
haven’t so long to have a good time in” It was 
only a few minutes till she had burst into the sum- 
mer kitchen, where Melissy was washing her hands 
at the sink. 

“Is grandmother here, Melissy?” she asked 
breathlessly. 

“ She’s takin’ her nap. You don’t want to wake 
her up, do you? ” 

“ No, of course not. But I want some matches, 
and oh! lots of things. Grammy won’t care if I 
have a picnic, will she? ” 

“Land, no!” answered Melissy, drying her 
hands on the roller-towel. “ She’d be tickled to 
death. What sort of things do yeh want for it? ” 

“ Well, cake, and butter, and — What do they 
have to eat over at Sanders’s, Melissy?” 

“ Land o’ Goshen, not much of anything, I guess, 
except salt pork an’ beans an’ boiled cabbage, an’ 
the like o’ that. You wasn’t thinkin’ o’ goin’ over 
there to board, was yeh? ” Melissy’s eyes twinkled 
as she began pulling down her sleeves. 

“ Not yet. I was just wondering, Melissy.” 

“ Well, wonderin’ is good exercise. Now I’ll get 


232 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


the cake-box, an’ we’ll begin on that.” Melissy 
brought the tin box from the pantry, and began cut- 
ting a slice from a spice-cake, scattered through with 
raisins. 

“ Big slices, and enough for three,” said Isabel, 
standing by the table. 

“ Your appetite’s surely improving,” said Melissy 
tartly. “ What else? ” 

“ Cold meat, and cheese, and anything good that 
you have on hand. Lots of it, too. I’ll tell you 
about it later, but let’s hurry now.” 

They quickly packed a basket with food, Melissy 
suppressing her curiosity, and rapidly fitting out the 
basket with a good supply of eatables. Her bark 
was very much worse than her bite. 

Snatching a box of matches, Isabel hurried back 
with her spoils; she hid the basket under the end 
of the foot-bridge. The two old ladies were sitting 
expectantly beside a heap of sticks and dried leaves, 
which they had carefully surrounded by stones. 

Mrs. Frisby gave a gasp when Isabel appeared. 
“ I kind o’ thought maybe you wouldn’t come back,” 
she sighed. Her sense of guilt for having forgot- 
ten the matches had made her all the more doubtful. 
“ It seemed too sort o’ good to be true,” she mur- 
mured. 

“ I was sure she’d come back,” said Mrs. Scott 
emphatically. “ She don’t look the disappointin’ 
kind.” 

Isabel struck a match on a stone, and the heap of 


Sanders’s 


233 


fuel sputtered and blazed. “ It’ll be fun to roast 
the potatoes,” she said happily. “ I haven’t roasted 
any since I was a youngster, knee-high to a grass- 
hopper.” 

“ Me either,” said Anne Frisby. She had the 
potatoes washed and wrapped in green leaves, ready 
for the baking. When the fire had burned down 
somewhat, the lumps of green were carefully in- 
serted under the coals. 

“ We couldn’t think of anything we could get to 
bring on this picnic, excep’ bread,” volunteered Anne 
Frisby a few minutes later, “ an’ that seemed so 
kind o’ dry an’ uninterestin’, an’ then we — ” 

“ I thought of ’em, just as quick,” interrupted 
Mrs. Scott. “ I says, ‘ Why couldn’t we roast some 
potatoes? ’ ” 

“ An’ then at dinner, I heard Daddy Crole say 
that the raspberries down in the pasture was ripe, 
an’ I whispered to Letty — ” 

“ Yes, an’ poor old Mis’ Taylor, she spoke out 
an’ says, “ Tain’t fair, whisperin’ in comp’ny. Sure 
to be a lie,’ says she, 4 an’ I bet it was somethin’ 
about me ! ’ She always thinks folks is talkin’ 
about her.” 

44 I told her ’twan’t nothin’ about her, any more’n 
about the moon. 4 Don’t worry,’ I says, 4 it ain’t 
nothin’ but a piece o’ our foolery.’ ” Mrs. Frisby 
smiled reminiscently. 

44 We might ’a’ asked her, poor soul,” said Mrs. 
Scott, uncomfortably, “ but I do declare, though it 


234 


Isabel Carletons Year 


may not be Christian to say so, the way her head 
keeps a-nid-noddin’ all the time makes me kind o’ 
seasick.” 

Isabel listened, dropping fuel from time to time 
upon the fire, and poking the potatoes to see whether 
they were getting done. The two old women went 
on talking, telling her about the life at the poor- 
house, and occasionally asking her a question about 
herself. She told them that they were not to call 
her Miss Carleton, but just Isabel. “ I’m too 
young to be Miss to older people,” she said simply. 

“ It’s one of the prettiest names there is — the 
name Isabel,” said Mrs. Scott meditatively. “ I 
knew an Isabel once, years ago, when I was a girl, 
and I liked her awful well, but she went to Missoury 
or somewheres with her folks, an’ I never heard tell 
of her afterwards. She had real black hair, not 
yellow like yours.” 

“ Mrs. Scott an’ I’ve been room-mates to San- 
ders’s for most five years — ain’t we, Letty? — an’ 
we know pretty near all there is t’know about each 
other by this time,” Mrs. Frisby remarked. “ I 
guess we’ve heard all about every single soul either 
one of us ever met, almost’s if they was our own 
folks. In winter it’s mighty lonesome, when we 
can’t git out, and we just have to sit an’ talk an’ 
talk till it seems sometimes as if they ain’t another 
word to say about anything on earth — leastways the 
things we’ve ever heard about.” 

“ After this we’ll have a picnic every summer, an’ 
then we can talk about it in the winter,” said Mrs. 


Sanders’s 


235 

Scott, shifting her position so that she could lean 
more comfortably against a tree. 

“ When my man was alive, we used to take picnic 
dinners to camp-meetinV , said Mrs. Frisby, her 
round wrinkled face lighting up with the memory; 
“ an’ we used to have marble cake, sometimes, an’ 
pound cake, the richest yellowest pound cake you 
ever saw, with raisins in it. There! I could turn 
my hand at makin’ a cake about as well as the next 
one, if I do say it. It surely was appetizin’.” 

“ Well, Anne, there won’t be no cake to this pic- 
nic”; Mrs. Scott spoke with mournful kindness. 
“ But then, you know,” she went on consolingly, 
“ the raspberries’ll taste real good. We don’t get 
that sort o’ thing very much where we live.” 

Anne Frisby answered bravely, smiling across the 
fire at her old room-mate, “ I guess we had our share 
o’ good things quite a while ago, when we had 
homes of our own. We ain’t complainin’, are we, 
Letty?” 

“N-no; not complainin’, — just rememberin’.” 

Isabel stabbed a potato with a sharpened stick. 
“ Set the table,” she cried, “ supper’s almost 
ready! ” 

Mrs. Scott, all hospitable excitement, spread out 
the clean coarse towel that she had brought. The 
deficiencies of the feast began to overwhelm her. 
“ You’ll want butter,” she said nervously to Isabel, 
“ and we didn’t bring any, — we don’t have butter 
very often except on Sundays. All we could get 
was just salt for the potatoes.” 


236 Isabel Carleton's Year 

Isabel drew her basket out of the shade of the 
foot-bridge. “ I brought a little butter,” she said, 
busy with the paper and linen coverings of the bas- 
ket; and she took out a glass jar with a bit of ice 
still swimming about at the top, above the butter. 

Anne Frisby stood by, with her eyes wide and 
happy, like a child’s. “ It’s a pile better than just 
salt,” she exulted, her lips trembling; “ an’ it does 
seem like a kind of a fairy story, to have butter 
springin’ out of a basket like that! ” 

“ I guess we found a fairy, too,” echoed Mrs. 
Scott, laying her knotted hand on the girl’s shoulder. 
“ It’s kind o’ as if she sailed down out o’ the trees, 
or popped up out o’ the grass.” 

Isabel caught the thin old hand and patted it. 
“ We’re all fairies,” she laughed, “ and we’re going 
to have the most glorious woodsy picnic! ” 

Leaves and bits of birch bark were the plates, 
where the slices of cold roast mutton, and the cubes 
of cheese were spread out upon the cloth. There 
were three paste-board plates, too, from the pile 
that grandmother always kept on hand for picnics, 
or for the times when the hired men had to carry 
their dinners to some remote part of the farm. 

u For the land’s sake — paper plates! ” said Let- 
ty Scott, taking one up and examining it. “ I’ve 
heard tell of ’em, but I never see one till now. Just 
think, Anne, what a sight o’ washin’ they’d save us 
if we could have ’em over to Sanders’s! ” 

“ Yes, an’ there wouldn’t be nicks all around the 
aidge of ’em, neither,” rejoined Anne Frisby. 


Sanders's 


237 


“ Them nicks does go against my grain like sixty. 
An’ Daddy Crole could keep a droppin’ of ’em as 
much as he chose, an’ wouldn’t be always gettin’ 
scolded for breakin’ of ’em.” 

“ Poor old Daddy Crole ! ” sighed Isabel under 
her breath. But just then she was taking out the 
jar of milk that Melissy had put into the basket, and 
then she unwrapped the cake from its paper napkin. 

Anne Frisby gave a kind of triumphant crow. 
“ There, Letty Scott! ” she boasted, “ you said there 
wouldn’t be no cake to this picnic, an’ just look a’ 
this ! ” There were actually tears in her faded blue 
eyes. u I always did relish a good piece o’ cake,” 
she said ecstatically, “ an’ that’s somethin’ that’s 
scarcer’n gold nuggets at Sanders’s Hotel.” 

All three of them sat down with the happiest of 
laughter. Never was such a greenwood feast as 
that. The potatoes were mealy and richly buttered, 
though perceptibly flavored with smoke. “ Make 
you feel as if you reely was right out in the open,” 
purred Anne Frisby, taking a rather smudgy mouth- 
ful, accompanied by a generous bite of cold meat. 

“ I used to like milk on my baked potato,” smiled 
Letty Scott, pouring some out on her paper plate; 
“ and my Eddie, he wouldn’t eat it any other way. 
He was such a dear little soul! He didn’t live to 
grow up. I took it desperate hard then, but a good 
many times since, I’ve been kind o’ glad that he was 
out of his troubles. Mebbe, though,” she added 
thoughtfully, “ I wouldn’t ’a’ had to go to Sanders’s 
if he’d grown to be a man.” 


Isabel Garletons Year 


238 

For a while neither Isabel nor Anne Frisby had 
anything to say. In the silence, the tap-tap of a 
wood-pecker echoed through the grove, and the 
gurgling of the water rushing over the stones 
sounded murmurously in the air. A cow lowed at 
a distance, and the tinkling of a bell followed. 

“ It’s a-gettin’ along in the afternoon,” said Anne 
Frisby at last, taking a second piece of cheese. 
“ We must show up in time to set the table, or Mis’ 
Sanders’ll be sendin’ out a posse fer us.” 

“ Guess we won’t be wantin’ very much cold beans 
for our supper,” responded Mrs. Scott, coming back 
from her dream of what might have been. 

“ It’s time for the raspberries and cake,” cried 
Isabel. “ We seem to have gotten rid of almost 
everything else.” Mrs. Scott carefully divided the 
contents of the tin pail into three portions, which 
were heaped into the saucers that Isabel had 
brought. A parcel of sugar done up in a bit of 
newspaper had been one of the contributions from 
Sanders’s. 

“ I’m goin’ to eat my cake real slow, so’s it’ll last 
longer,” said Anne Frisby, with her spoon in one 
hand and her slice of cake in the other. 

They were silent again while the dessert was dis- 
appearing. 

“ We won’t never forget this picnic,” sighed Mrs. 
Scott, wiping her lips on her paper napkin. “ We’ll 
be talkin’ about it all winter, won’t we, Anne? ” 

“ We’ll have it fer a secret,” answered Mrs. 


Sanders's 


239 

Frisby. “ But goodness me, Letty, we’d better be 
goin’, or there’ll be trouble in camp.” 

They rose, with some wry faces over stiffened 
joints, and began to gather up the dishes. “ Let’s 
leave everything neat an’ clean,” said Mrs. Scott. 
“ I do hate to see paper’n’ stuff scattered around.” 

In a few minutes the party was breaking up. 
There was a tiny lump in Isabel’s throat. “ We 
can’t say thank you like we’d ought,” murmured 
Anne Frisby, “ an’ so we ain’t goin’ to say it at 
all.” 

“ We’ve had the loveliest time,” supplemented 
Mrs. Scott. 

“ So have I,” said Isabel. “ I’m awfully glad I 
know you. I wish we could have another picnic, 
but I’m going home the day after to-morrow.” 

“ We won’t forget you,” beamed Mrs. Frisby. 
“ I tell you, we’ll talk about you more’n a lit- 
tle.” 

“ I’ll send you some postal cards once in a while,” 
said the girl. There were ever so many things that 
she wanted to say, but she could only squeeze the 
wrinkled hands held out to her, and smile wistfully. 
“ Good-bye, good-bye,” she repeated gently. “ It’s 
been a glorious picnic.” 

She watched the two forms in the faded grey 
print dresses and the green gingham sun-bonnets, as 
they disappeared through the trees. Then she 
picked up her basket, and went slowly back to the 
house. Her heart was aching a trifle, but it was 


240 


Isabel Garleton’s Year 


happy, too. “Poor old souls!” she kept saying 
over and over, “ poor dear old souls! ” And again 
she reflected, as she had done so many times during 
this last year, “ What a mix-up life is, anyway! ” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE REAL LADY 

“WES, of course, Olga,” said Mrs. Carleton, who 
JL had just risen from the breakfast table, “ if 
your sister is ill, you must go and see her.” 

Olga, wearing her coat and hat in anticipation of 
her mistress’s reply, hastened away with a word of 
thanks. 

“ It’s too bad it’s to-day that she has to go, isn’t 
it, mother? ” said Isabel, beginning to gather up the 
knives and forks and put them on the wicker tray. 
“ We’ve had breakfast so late, and it’s cleaning day, 
and you have to read your paper at the Woman’s 
Club luncheon. Isn’t that the way things always 
go?” 

“ I never knew it to fail,” answered Mrs. Carle- 
ton, smiling humorously through her worried look. 
“ Maids always leave one at the worst possible time. 
But Olga is so good and conscientious that we ought 
not to complain.” 

“ And it isn’t her fault that her sister fell down 
stairs,” commented Isabel, who had a strong sense 
of justice, which sometimes became severe. She 
looked very pretty and girlish in her green-and- 
white percale, with a black velvet ribbon around 
her hair. 


241 


242 Isabel Garletoris Year 

“ I shouldn’t mind so much,” Mrs. Carleton went 
on with a sigh, “ if I merely had that paper to read, 
but it happens that I’m on the finance committee, too, 
and we have to meet at half past ten for the last 
auditing. The report goes in at the end of the 
luncheon. We’re combining business and pleasure 
to-day.” 

u We’ll get along somehow, Mother-Bird,” re- 
assured Isabel, working busily at the table. “ Since 
father’s off on this fishing trip, and you’re going to 
have a sumptuous repast, we girls won’t have much 
lunch — just bread and milk, or something. Fanny 
and I’ll do what we can to make the house look 
right. It’s a good thing that there’s no school, and 
that Cousin Eunice isn’t arriving to-day.” 

Mrs. Carleton, watering the sword-fern at the 
back window, still looked disturbed. “ I believe I 
heard the postman,” she said suddenly. “ That 
front door-bell is out of order again. Run, Isabel, 
and see if there’s a letter from Cousin Eunice.” 

“ Yes, there is! ” cried the girl, coming back with 
a square envelope heavily bordered with black. 
“ Oh, mother, you don’t suppose — ” 

Mrs. Carleton tore open the letter, and glanced 
it through hastily. “Yes!” she exclaimed with a 
mixture of pleasure and despair in her tone, “ she’s 
finished that business in Freeport earlier than she 
expected, and she’ll be here to-day — to-day, 
Isabel!” 

“At what time?” asked Isabel excitedly. 

“ Not till half past five. That isn’t so bad, is 


243 


The Real Lady 

it? I can get home by half past two or three, and 
we can fly around and put things in order, and have 
dinner ready by the time she gets up from the sta- 
tion. I’ve seen many a worse domestic crisis than 
this.” 

“ Oh, dear! ” said Isabel, “ it’s lovely that she’s 
really coming, but how contrary things can be, can’t 
they? ” 

“Fanny!” called Mrs. Carleton, going to the 
sitting-room door, “ Cousin Eunice is coming to-day. 
Run over and see if Mrs. Hogan can come and help 
us for a few hours. Things must be cleaned 
nicely,” she added, turning to Isabel again; “ they’ve 
been neglected all the week, because Olga and I had 
to put up all those apples and quinces that mother 
sent from the farm.” 

“ Oh, mother,” Isabel burst out, with a frown, 
“ we must have things nice for Cousin Eunice, 
mustn’t we? It isn’t just because she has money, 
and can have everything she wants, — but she’s so 
particular (I can tell that from her letters), and 
she’s lived abroad for so many years, with servants 
to wait on her, hand and foot. I want her to see 
that we are ladies, and that we know how to have 
everything just right.” 

Mrs. Carleton laughed. “ Well, Little One,” 
she said quizzically, “ when you’ve kept house as 
many years as I have, you’ll understand that there 
are times when you can’t have everything absolutely 
correct.” 

“ I know, mother, but we must make a special 


244 Isabel Garletoris Year 

effort to have things dainty and attractive — the 
house, and our clothes, and what we have to eat, 
and all. I don’t want Cousin Eunice to think that 
because father is a poor professor we aren’t just as 
refined as the other members of the family. And 
anyway, it’s our duty to make her as comfortable 
and happy as we can.” 

Mrs. Carleton was not listening to what Isabel 
was saying. She was too busy clearing away the 
dishes and folding the table-cloth. “ Mrs. Hogan 
will get the worst of the work out of the way before 
I come back,” she said, “ and you may do what you 
can to help; and then I’ll see about the dinner. I’m 
sure we shall be presentable.” 

“ We want to be a lot more than that ” protested 
Isabel. 

Mrs. Carleton hurried up stairs to put her own 
room in order, to get her committee notes ready, 
and to dress. 

After a little while, Fanny came back, out of 
breath, her eyes dancing. “ Mrs. Hogan can’t come 
nohow,” she quoted giggling. “ It’s half-crazy she 
is with the toothache, and him bringin’ his first 
wife’s mother for supper, and not a stitch in the 
house to eat ! ” 

Isabel laughed in spite of her vexation. “ Then 
we’ll have to pitch in, Gipsy-Girl, and do the best we 
can by ourselves. Where’s Celia? ” 

“ Out in the back yard, playing Indian, and do 
let her stay there. She’s as cross as two sticks be- 
cause I wouldn’t let her paste pictures in my kodak- 


245 


The Real Lady 

book. And, oh, Isabel, I hate to remind you, but 
this is the day for my violin lesson. I’ve got to 
take it, no matter what happens. I guess Cousin 
Eunice isn’t so nice but what she can stand what we 
can. 

“ Oh, Fanny! ” Isabel cried reproachfully, “ when 
people come to see you, you like them to have what 
they’re accustomed to. Now, that’s a good girl, 
you go and get my room ready for our guest; I’ll 
share with you while she’s here. Don’t forget to 
air the sheets in the sun, and wipe all around the 
mop-board so there won’t be any dust,” — Isabel 
spoke with anxious importance — “ and make the 
bed just the way they taught you in your Domestic 
Science class. You can do it very nicely if you 
try.” 

“ All right,” called Fanny, on her way up stairs; 
“ but remember I have to go for my lesson pretty 
soon.” 

Just then the ice-man came, and the woman from 
the country, with the eggs and the butter; and then 
the groceries had to be ordered over the telephone. 
“ I know mother says that’s no way to order,” 
sighed the young housewife, “ but I can’t get time 
to go out for them to-day.” 

Mrs. Carleton, in her cloak and hat, and her 
pretty blue silk gown with the real lace fichu, stepped 
to the kitchen door, looking worried, and feeling in 
her hand-bag to see that she had everything that she 
needed. Fanny had told her about Mrs. Hogan. 
“ I’m sorry to leave you like this, child,” she said 


246 Isabel Carletons Year 

nervously, “ but I’ll come back just the minute I can 
get away. I ought to telephone for a man to come 
and repair that door-bell, but I haven’t time. Don’t 
work too hard, dear.” She came over to the ice- 
box, where Isabel was putting the eggs away, and 
gave the girl a kiss, holding her skirts clear of the 
floor. Then she hurried out through the dining- 
room, and the side door. 

“ I know what’s a good thing to do,” murmured 
Isabel to herself, “ and that is to get every room 
all mussed up, and then I’ll just have to put it to 
rights, whether I get tired or not. I might be 
tempted to give things ‘ a lick and a promise,’ as 
grandmother says, if I did one room at a time. 
I’m determined that this house shall be perfectly 
spick and span when our distinguished guest arrives 
on the scene ! ” 

She carried some of the rugs out to the back 
porch and shook them; others she swept thoroughly 
and piled in the front hall. She heaped books and 
ornaments on sofas and covered them with news- 
papers, and draped the curtains high, out of the 
dust. Three floors she went over with a dampened 
mop, but the dining-room floor seemed to need 
special attention. “ I’ll just go at it like a profes- 
sional,” exclaimed the enthusiastic young cleaning- 
woman. 

She was down on her knees, in a long blue ging- 
ham apron, a white cloth tied round her head, and 
her sleeves rolled up, wiping the last corner of the 
dining-room floor, when she heard a step in the 


247 


The Real Lady 

sitting-room. Then a woman’s voice, very mellow 
and “Eastern,” asked, “Is Mrs. Carleton in?” 

Isabel looked up, a swift horror in her heart. 
The lady standing in the door was tall and hand- 
some, and dressed in mourning. “ I came right in,” 
she apologised, “ because the bell didn’t seem to 
ring.” 

Isabel rose from her knees. Her face was 
flushed, her hair straggled out from under her wild- 
looking turban, her apron was soiled, her hands 
were red and dripping. “I won’t cry!” she was 
saying to herself, “ I won’t — oh, I won’t ! ” Then 
she said aloud, in as pleasant a voice as she could 
command, “ No, mother isn’t at home. She had to 
go to a Woman’s Club luncheon.” 

A slight change passed over the face of the visitor. 
“She thought I was a servant!” flashed through 
Isabel’s mind. 

“ I’m sorry — ” began the lady. 

“Are you father’s Cousin Eunice?” Isabel said 
calmly. “ We’re ever and ever so glad to see you.” 

She took the cloth from her head, wiped her 
hands on it, and came over to the woman, who 
kissed her warmly. “And so this is Isabel? Just 
think ! I haven’t seen you since you were five years 
old. You’ve changed a good deal ! ” She appeared 
oblivious of the disorder about her. 

“ I dare say I have changed in twelve years,” 
Isabel laughed. But she was thinking, “ Oh, what 
a mess! It’s too awful, but I won’t show how 
terribly I feel.” 


248 Isabel Carletoris Year 

“Didn’t you get my telegram?” asked Mrs. 
Everard. “ I sent one several hours ago, when I 
discovered that I could take an earlier train than I 
expected to. But perhaps this is it — I found it 
under the door.” She held out a small yellow 
envelope. 

Isabel took it quietly, though her heart was beat- 
ing hard with chagrin. “ The boy probably left it 
there because nobody came to the door,” she said. 
“ I’m sorry we didn’t get it, but you’re just as wel- 
come, anyway.” Her eyes met the dark eyes of the 
lady, who looked so sad in her black clothes that 
Isabel found herself feeling more pained than em- 
barrassed. If mother should lose father — ! 

“ Come up to your room,” she said cordially, 
with an assurance that she was far from feeling. 
“ Oh, if Fanny has only made things half-way 
neat ! ” she was thinking frantically. “ Where is 
your luggage?” she asked aloud. 

“ The cab-man left it on the porch — except this 
bag.” Mrs. Everard lifted a small portmanteau 
that she had left in the hall. 

Isabel took it from her and led the way upstairs. 
“ Did you have a good journey? ” she inquired, as 
she had heard her mother do. Her mind was a 
whirl of apprehension, too soon justified. At the 
head of the stairs was a pan of dirty water with 
a grimy cloth in it. Fanny had cherished the laud- 
able intention of “ wiping down ” the stairs, but 
had postponed the task. Isabel shuddered, smiling 
frozenly at what Mrs. Everard was saying about 


249 


The Real Lady 

the trip from Freeport. There were bedclothes on 
a chair in the upper hall. Isabel stopped at the door 
of her room. Fanny had wiped the mop-board, to 
be sure, and aired the sheets, — but the room was 
in the wildest turmoil, the half-done stage at which 
any room looks its worst. Cousin Eunice, telling 
about a bewildered old lady on the train, pretended 
not to see. 

“ I’ll take you into mother’s room,” said Isabel, 
without a tremor. She could have sunk through the 
floor, into the blackest depths of the coal-bin, but, 
“ I won’t apologise,” she kept saying to herself. 
“ It isn’t my fault, and I won’t make excuses. I 
hate explanations that can’t explain.” 

All was serene in Mrs. Carleton’s room, with 
its grey walls, its pretty rose-chintz hangings, grey 
rug, and wicker chairs with their chintz cushions. 
“ Thank heaven,” thought the girl with a catch in 
her breath, “ mother’s room is always as it should 
be.” 

The visitor took off her hat and veil, and opened 
her travelling-bag. “ I’ll leave you now for a few 
minutes,” said Isabel, “ if you’ll excuse me.” 

On the back stairs, she sat down hard, and put 
her hands over her burning face. “ I wanted her 
to see what lady-like housekeepers we are!” she 
cried in a smothered tone. “ She sees, I guess ! 
What must she think of us! ” She put her head 
down on her knees, intending to cry, but somehow 
the funny side of the thing struck her, and she 
laughed hysterically. “Such a house!” she mur- 


250 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


mured — “such a looking house! And absolutely 
nothing for lunch, and — oh ! how perfectly awful ! ” 

While Isabel was nervously straightening the 
front hall, the guest came down stairs, looking so 
stately and elegant that the girl was transfixed with 
awe. “ Oh, you should have stayed upstairs until 
I put things to rights down here,” she cried mis- 
erably. 

“ I’m going to help you,” answered the regal 
looking lady. “Let’s take one room at a time; 
that’s the way I always do.” 

“ If I only had! ” groaned Isabel. She did not 
protest, for one must do as this lady commanded. 
She brought an apron for the black silk gown, and 
the two attacked the confused and discouraging 
house. 

“ The floors are all wiped,” said Isabel, glad 
that Cousin Eunice did not insist on mopping in 
that gown. 

They took the sitting-room first. In a few 
minutes, the rugs were down, the furniture was 
whisked into place and dusted, and books and orna- 
ments were disposed of, and the curtains rearranged. 
Then the other rooms were taken in their order. 

While she and Isabel were working, Mrs. Ever- 
ard told some funny stories of her Italian servants, 
and gradually Isabel forgot her distress. “ I don’t 
know why,” she thought, “ but somehow I don’t 
care half so much as I ought to.” 

They were just finishing the dining-room when 


251 


The Real Lady 

Celia rushed in with her hair tousled and her pina- 
fore smeared, and was kissed and held on the 
visitor’s lap. Fanny, hurrying home repentantly 
with her violin case, stopped amazed at the kitchen 
door, to see a handsome lady in black silk and one 
of mother’s aprons, wiping dishes while Isabel 
washed; Bobo was lapping milk out of his yellow 
pie-plate, and Celia, clean and content, was eating 
a slice of bread and jelly in Olga’s rocking-chair. 

There was a most informal but very merry 
luncheon, with a wonderful Italian omelet, and bread 
and butter and quince preserves; and then a rest 
and a lively conversation in the sitting-room, where 
the old mahogany took on an added charm from 
the presence of the stately guest. 

When Mrs. Carleton came home at three o’clock, 
they were all gathered in Isabel’s room, now the per- 
fection of order, except for the trunk and the bags 
that Mr. Hogan had found time to bring up from 
the porch. Cousin Eunice was just burrowing down 
to the place where she had packed her presents for 
the girls. 

She put her arms around mother’s neck and kissed 
her, and they both cried, thinking of Cousin Henry. 

“ I’ve made the acquaintance of all your girls — 
Isabel first,” said Cousin Eunice. 

“Yes, Isabel first, — and oh, mother, in such a 
way ! ” Isabel’s grey eyes clouded with the recollec- 
tion. 

“ The first thing that I found out about her w T as 


252 Isabel Garletoris Year 

that she is a real lady,” said Mrs. Everard putting 
her hand caressingly on Isabel’s shoulder. “ A true 
lady never fusses nor apologises, but keeps herself 
sweet and calm, no matter what happens. And now 
for those little presents! ” 


CHAPTER XIX 


TRAGEDY 

O NE afternoon in September, Isabel was sitting 
on the front porch, reading The Earthly 
Paradise . Cousin Eunice and Mrs. Carleton were 
upstairs consulting as to how the latter lady could 
most advantageously make over her cream-coloured 
voile gown. The rest of the family were out on 
various errands, social or useful. Isabel was not 
reading very hard; as she turned the pages, she was 
thinking of the opening of college, now not very far 
away, and wondering whether Evelyn Taylor’s 
sorority would really “ bid ” her, and whether col- 
lege life would be all that she had anticipated. 

(Then she heard the old high-school whistle, and 
looking up quickly, saw Rodney Fox coming across 
the street. He had a crimson sweater on, over a 
silk shirt, and in his hand he carried a paddle with 
double blades. He was bare-headed, as he usually 
was all summer, except on rare occasions of for- 
mality. Isabel closed the book and waited till he 
came up the path. “ Greetings, most noble lady! ” 
he said, with an exaggerated bow; “ come on, — let’s 
go for a spin across the lake before dinner. Eric’s 
taking Molly in his canoe, and we’re going to meet 
at the boat-house — if you can go.” 

Isabel jumped up joyously. “ Of course I can,” 
253 


254 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


she said, “ if mother doesn’t object, — and I don’t 
see why she should. I’ll be ready in a jiffy.” 

“ I think she’ll be willing,” returned Rodney. 
“ There’s a pretty stiff breeze, but that’s all the more 
fun, and those grey clouds over there don’t mean 
anything.” 

“ How long shall we be gone? ” 

“ Oh, two hours or so. We’re just going to 
paddle over to Maple Bluff and back.” 

Isabel ran upstairs, and came down in a few mo- 
ments, with a white felt hat snugly pinned on, and 
a white sweater over her arm. 

“ Mother says, do be careful,” she laughed. 
“Aren’t mothers funny? As if you didn’t know 
how to paddle your own canoe ! ” 

“ Perhaps she hasn’t the confidence in me that 
you have.” 

“ Oh, yes, she has, but she just worries on gen- 
eral principles. I love to-day,” Isabel went on; 
“ it’s so blue and soft. There’s a kind of grey 
shadow on things that makes them mysterious and 
dreamy. What’s the reason?” 

“ It’s just the fall coming on,” answered Rod- 
ney, with masculine wisdom. They were walking 
through the short street that led to the rambling old 
University boat-house. 

“ The vacation’s almost over,” sighed Isabel. “ I 
rather hate to see it go. And Cousin Eunice is 
going away pretty soon, too.” 

“She’s charming, isn’t she? You must have en- 
joyed having her around.” 


Tragedy 255 

“ We certainly have! ” 

Is she going back to Europe? ” 

“ Yes, but she hasn’t decided when. She may 
visit in the East for a while. Goodness ! how I wish 
I were going to Europe, too. Some people have all 
the luck. Oh, there are Eric and Molly.” 

With a chorus of “ hello’s,” and a good deal of 
laughter about nothing in particular, the group of 
four met on the dock. “ We’re going to Picnic 
Point, aren’t we?” asked Eric. 

“ Why, Maple Bluff, I thought,” said Rodney 
carelessly. 

“ It doesn’t make any diff,” rejoined Eric. 
“ One’s as dull as the other. But I think the wind 
is better for the Point. Do you care, girls? ” 

“ Not in the least. It’s all the same to us. We’re 
only passengers who haven’t paid their fare! ” 

“ Well, jump in, then.” 

The two canoes darted out from the shadow of 
the dock, and were soon leaping forward into the 
blue circle of the lake. The only other boat visible 
was a launch arriving from the State Hospital, with 
a trio of doctors in stiff hats and spectacles. “ I 
almost feel as if we owned the lake,” said Eric. 
“ Let’s put up a sign, ‘ No trespassing.’ ” 

“ Most people don’t believe in signs,” responded 
Rodney. 

“ It’s a queer sort of day, isn’t it?” commented 
Molly. “ But it’s splendiferous for canoeing.” 

The two boats, keeping close together, bounded 
gaily along, impelled partly by the wind, and partly 


256 Isabel Carletons Year 

by the vigorous paddling of the two young men. It 
seemed only a short time until the party landed on 
Picnic Point, a long narrow beak of land about mid- 
way of the width of the lake. 

They walked about a few minutes, “ to limber up 
their legs,” as Eric delicately put it, and then re- 
turned to the boats, which were drawn up on the 
sloping shore. 

“Well, say!” exclaimed Rodney, motioning to- 
ward the west, “ those clouds don’t look any too 
funny, do they? ” 

Eric, his light hair blowing, twisted about, as he 
was loosening the prow of his canoe from the hold 
of the wet sand. “ They are a little squally,” he 
said thoughtfully, “ but I guess they’re all right. 
I’ve seen ’em a good deal worse.” 

Molly was buttoning her rose-coloured jersey 
closely about her, for the wind had grown rather 
chilly. “Do you think we’d better walk back?” 
she asked earnestly. Her eyes were troubled, as 
she turned from Rodney to Eric. 

“ Oh, no,” said Eric, easily. “ It’s too far to 
walk now before dinner. Besides, what could we do 
with the canoes? Better start, hadn’t we, Rod?” 

“ There isn’t a bit of danger ” answered Rodney. 
“ We may have a pretty hard pull of it, but I don’t 
think the storm can amount to anything.” 

“All right, then; here goes. Are you game, 
girls?” 

“ Yes, if you are ! ” 

“ Be careful, Eric,” called Rodney, as the two 


Tragedy 257 

boats were whirled apart, in the rush of the wind. 
“ Keep cool, and don’t try to go too fast.” Rod- 
ney was the more experienced canoeist of the two. 

“ Just so,” shouted Eric across the tumbled water. 
“ It’s going to be all right.” 

The shadow over the lake began to darken, and 
the wind grew stronger. Rodney was paddling 
calmly and firmly, and the boat went forward with 
a steady rhythmic sweep, though not rapidly. Eric 
and Molly were considerably ahead, and their boat 
seemed to waver and curvet through the waves. 
Once or twice Rodney called to them to go more 
slowly, but it was evident that they did not hear. 

The wind had now increased to a gale, and the 
sky was black and lowering. “ We shouldn’t have 
started,” said Isabel, feeling a first thrill of real 
alarm. 

“ No, we shouldn’t have,” replied her companion 
briefly. 

“ Can’t we go back? ” 

“ No use now. The current’s too strong around 
the Point. We’re here, and we’re in for it, 
Isabel.” 

The girl did not reply, but she set her lips very 
hard. The waves began to splash over the edge of 
the canoe, and a scattered drive of rain-drops fell 
like bullets on the water. Rodney was scarcely 
paddling now, but bending all his efforts toward 
keeping the craft upright, with its nose toward shore. 
Molly and Eric, wherever they were, had dis- 
appeared into the gloom of the clouds and rain. 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


258 

“ Isabel,” said Rodney at last, in a low, hard voice, 
without looking round, “ we’re likely to go over, 
you know. Take off your shoes, and your hat, and 
your sweater, and your woollen skirt.” Quietly, 
holding by one hand to the rim of the canoe, Isabel 
did as she was told. She shivered as the wind cut 
through her muslin garments. 

“You can’t swim much, can you?” Rodney had 
to strain his voice above the fury of the storm. 

“ No, only a little,” Isabel rejoined in a stifled 
tone. The waves were now dashing over the prow 
of the boat, drenching Rodney’s red sweater till it 
was heavy with water. He could not let go the 
paddle to take it off. Isabel’s teeth were chattering, 
whether with fear or cold she scarcely knew. 

“ I can swim,” Rodney went on; “ and when we 
go over, hold to me. I’ll catch the edge of the 
boat.” 

“ Yes, Rodney.” 

“ Some one will come. We can hold on a long 
time.” The boy’s voice was indistinct in the gust. 
He raised it still higher. “ Don’t take in any water 
if you can help it. Keep your mouth closed when 
you go down.” 

“ Yes, Rod.” A paralysing terror gripped the 
girl, but she forced her lips to make reply. 

“ And whatever happens, don’t give up! ” He 
was shouting now above the howl of the wind. 
“ Can you hear me? Don’t give up! ” 

“ No — no — I won’t.” 

There was a lull in the shriek of the tempest, and 


259 


Tragedy 

Rodney, his arms still taut in his struggle to keep 
the boat in its course, turned his head and looked 
at Isabel. Her hair was flying, her face white and 
expressionless. Their eyes met in one swift, speak- 
ing look. 

“ I’ll save you, dear,” said Rodney. 

Then there was a long time — hours, it seemed 
— of silent battling. Rodney’s shoulders bent and 
swayed with the motion of the boat. Isabel kept 
her eyes upon them and thought of nothing, except 
that now and then the question of Molly and Eric 
stabbed her through. 

At last, with a quick, short, swinging lurch, the 
canoe went over. 

As Isabel dropped down into the black surge of 
the water, she kept her mouth closed and held her 
breath. “ Rodney will save me,” a thin voice said 
within her brain. She put out her arms with the 
swimming motion that she had been taught, but her 
limbs were stiff with cold, and she felt heavy and 
torpid. She was going down. But, “ Rodney will 
save me,” she said within herself, almost calmly. 

Then a hand was clutching at her arm, and slip- 
ping round her shoulder. A voice close at her ear 
was saying, “Keep up, keep up — we’ll make it.” 
Her head was above water again, and she opened 
her eyes. The grey madness of the storm was all 
about, and the wild whipping of the rain. But Rod- 
ney’s wet brown head was there beside her, and his 
face plaster-white, with shining drops upon it. He 
was holding her and swimming. “ Don’t struggle,” 


260 


Isabel Carletons Year 


he gasped. “ Keep still.” And in a moment he 
had clutched the over-turned boat. 

Isabel’s mind was dull and leaden. She was con- 
scious only that they had reached the boat. Rodney 
was panting and blowing water. “ Can you hold 
it?” he asked. He took her arms and put them 
up against the canoe, so that her fingers touched the 
middle ridge. They closed upon it, and she hung 
there half senseless. Rodney supported her as best 
he could against his shoulder. Little by little her 
mind cleared. They clung a long time without 
speaking. The waves hurled themselves savagely 
against the two slender figures, and the rain lashed 
them incessantly. 

“ Keep up ! ” repeated Rodney, as Isabel gave a 
groan of exhaustion. “ Keep up, Little One. 
Some one will come.” His voice was tense, but not 
despairing. 

“ Yes, mother will telephone to the boat-house, 
and send out a launch,” shivered the girl. “ Yes, 
yes! they’ll find us all.” And then she cried out 
sharply, “Oh, Rodney! I told her we were going 
to Maple Bluff ! ” 

The boy’s face changed, and grew a shade 
sterner and whiter. “ Never mind,” he reiterated, 
“ they’ll go to Picnic Point next. They’ll find us 
somehow. Just keep holding on.” 

They held on grimly and silently again, and the 
minutes went by like hours and weeks. Isabel was 
fully conscious of what was passing, but her strength 
was going. As her aching hands gradually loosened 


Tragedy 261 

their hold upon the boat, she seemed to see the whole 
of the last year unfolding before her, — all the 
troubles, and the good times, and the surprises and 
disappointments. She thought of Molly and Eric, 
and they seemed to stand before her as they had 
done on Commencement Day, with their serious ab- 
sorbed young faces, ready always, nevertheless, to 
expand into smiles. She remembered what Molly 
had said on Commencement night — something 
about “ the end.” “ This is the end,” said Isabel, 
half aloud. And she saw with strange and startling 
clearness all the family at home, and knew, as she 
had never known before, how deeply and unchang- 
ingly they loved her, and loved one another. “ But 
this is the end,” she heard some one saying, not 
knowing the sound of her own voice. 

“ No, no ! ” another voice was answering pas- 
sionately. “ It’s not the end. It’s only a be- 
ginning.” 

“ I can’t keep up any longer, Rodney,” murmured 
Isabel. “ Let me go.” 

The boy moved closer along the pitching boat. 
His face twitched with the pain of cramping limbs. 
His cheek was close to Isabel’s. “ No ! no ! no ! 
Keep up ! I can’t let you go — now! Don’t, don’t 
give up ! ” 

“ Yes, yes.” Her eyes were shut, her brain grew 
grey and dull again. “ I’m going,” she whispered, 
“ you — can save — yourself. Tell mother — ” 
Her arms relaxed, and she was slipping down lower 
into the waves. 


262 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


A shaking hand closed upon the folds of her mus- 
lin blouse. Rodney put his lips to her ear. “ Isa- 
bel! Isabel!” He was pleading for her life. 
“ I think I hear the launch. Wait a little longer — 
just a minute — just a second. Try, dear ! Try! ” 
The girl’s stiff fingers reached again for the ridge 
of the tossing boat. They seemed to hold, like hard 
dead bits of wood. And she knew nothing more. 

It might have been months afterward that she was 
dimly aware of being lifted, and rolled in heavy 
wrappings. Men’s voices were speaking, she did 
not know where, and there was a fiery trickle of 
something that was poured down her throat. She 
felt vague pains and agonies, and the racking of all 
her bones. The puffing of an engine and the swing 
of the floor beneath her suggested the presence of a 
launch, but she was too stupid with cold and misery 
to know what was happening. At last she was 
lifted again, and opening her eyes, she saw the 
rafters and the cobwebs of the boat-house roof. 
Another glance showed a stiff dripping figure being 
carried by two men in rain-coats. “Rodney!” 
The thought struck and crushed her, as with a fall- 
ing rock. For hours more, all consciousness was 
gone. 

When Isabel came to herself again, she was lying 
on a sofa somewhere in a house, and her mother’s 
face was over her, — white, with tears on the cheeks, 
but real and human and loving. “ Don’t talk, don’t 
speak, dear,” Mrs. Carleton was saying. “ You’re 
all right. Mother’s here.” 


Tragedy 263 

Isabel was warm and dry, under blankets, and 
there were hot bricks and water-bottles about her, 
she could feel their grateful warmth or hear their 
chug-chug when she attempted to move. She felt 
very stiff and heavy and wooden. “ Mother! ” she 
tried to say, but made no sound. 

Father appeared, too, looking very sick and queer. 
She could not distinguish the other people, but there 
were two or three about. 

“ Rodney? ” she whispered at last, with a terrible 
effort. She could not remember all that had taken 
place, but she knew she must ask about Rodney. 

“ Yes, yes, he’s all right,” Mrs. Carleton said 
hastily. “ He’s perfectly safe. Don’t try to talk, 
darling.” 

“Oh, I’m so glad!” Isabel exulted. “I’m so 
glad ! 

“You sent the launch for us, didn’t you? We 
thought you would.” 

“ Yes, we tried both places. Now don’t say any 
more.” 

Isabel drank some hot milk, and then drifted off 
into a sound, refreshing sleep. 

It was late at night when she woke. A light 
was burning somewhere in the room. “ Where am 
I ? ” thought the girl. It had not occurred to her 
to wonder before. She peered about through the 
shadows, certain that she was not at home, but 
dubious as to where she had really found herself. 
[Then she saw, where a shaft of light struck the wall, 
a square of Chinese embroidery, orange-coloured, 


264 Isabel Carletoris Year 

with a design of peacocks and dragons. It was in 
Mrs. Mitchell’s sitting-room. “ Of course,” she 
thought — “ the Mitchells live near the lake, — * 
that’s why I’m here.” [The terrible experience of 
the afternoon began to come back to her, but she 
fought it off. u I can’t bear to think of it now ! ” 
she said hurriedly, within herself. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she 
opened them, a man was feeling her pulse, and other 
forms were standing behind him. He stepped back, 
and then her mother’s arms were round her, and 
her mother’s face was against hers. It came over 
her again, as it had done in the water with such 
marvellous clearness, how perfect was the love that 
she had always had about her at home — the deep, 
deep, unchanging love. Tears flowed hotly down 
her cheeks, and she made no effort to wipe them 
away. 

Somehow, when her mother’s embrace relaxed, 
there was father, holding her hand very hard. 
Fanny stood beside the sofa, too, struggling with 
sobs. She bent and kissed Isabel on the cheek. 

“ Celia’s at home in bed, poor dear! ” said Mrs. 
Carleton, seeing Isabel’s inquiring look. “ She 
couldn’t keep awake, try as hard as she would. 
She’ll be over early in the morning — and Bobo, I 
suppose. You’re to stay here to-night; and to-mor- 
row I think we can take you home. Are you com- 
fortable, dear? ” 

“Yes. Oh, mother! Rodney was wonderful. 
He wouldn’t let me go. I wanted him to, but he 


Tragedy 265 

wouldn’t. He held me, and held me, — and kept 
urging me to — to live a little longer — ” A burst 
of hysterical tears cut short what she was saying. 

“ Don’t think about it, sweetheart.” 

“ No, I can’t bear it. But — but — Molly and 
Eric, — tell me about them. We couldn’t see them. 
They’re safe, too?” 

“ Yes, quite safe.” 

“ It’s beautiful to know that they are, mother. 
I was horribly afraid that — something had hap- 
pened — Molly said something so queer to me about 
‘ the end,’ and I kept thinking of it there in the 
water! ” 

“ Don’t! don’t try to talk or think now.” Mrs. 
Carleton’s voice was that of one who can endure 
no more. “ Go to sleep, and we’ll talk in the 
morning.” 

Then there were hours more of heavy sleep. 


CHAPTER XX 


SURPRISES, PAINFUL AND PLEASANT 

I SABEL lay in her own pretty room (which 
Cousin Eunice had insisted on giving up), star- 
ing numbly at the ceiling. It was the afternoon of 
the next day, and she was almost recovered from the 
physical hardships that she had endured. Aching 
joints and throbbing head were nothing compared to 
the anguish in her soul. 

She had asked so many questions of her mother 
about Rodney, and how he was feeling, and when 
he would be out of doors, that Mrs. Carleton had 
resolved upon the truth. Sitting down on the bed, 
and taking Isabel’s hands, she had said gently, 
“ Dear, I must tell you that Rodney is very, very ill. 
He may not get well — the doctor does not think he 
will. But we must hope and pray, my child, — there 
is nothing else to do.” 

“Mother! ” For a long time, Isabel could say 
nothing more. She sank back upon the pillow, and 
put her hands over her eyes. Her mother rose 
softly, and moved about, lifting the shade, so that 
the hazy sunlight might pour into the room, rear- 
ranging the flowers that the Harpers and the 
Mitchells and the Lenners had sent. 

“ It can’t be, it mustn't be,” said Isabel at last, in 
266 


Surprises , Painful and Pleasant 267 

a suffocated voice. “ Oh, it couldn’t, it couldn't , 
mother! ” 

u We don’t know, dearest. We shall have to 
wait.” 

Just then Cousin Eunice came to the door, and 
called Mrs. Carleton out, and Isabel was left alone, 
staring at the ceiling. “ It isn’t fair — it isn’t fair,” 
was all she could think at first. “ He’s so fine and 
good, and he tried so hard to save me, not thinking 
of himself. His life is so worth while, — it’s right 
that he should live, and what’s right must — must 
come true ! ” 

She looked slowly about the room. There was 
the carved ivory frame on the dresser, with his pic- 
ture in it. Rodney had given it to her for Christ- 
mas. And there were the books and the trinkets 
that he had given her for many Christmases before. 
The bunch of dance programmes that hung at the 
corner of the mirror were scrawled through with 
his name; and the row of funny postal-cards over the 
desk were reminders of jokes between them. On 
the table beside the window was the round box made 
of birch-bark and porcupine quills that he had 
bought of the Indians when he was out camping; she 
used it for her spools and needle-book. The dozen 
kodak-pictures that lay beside it he had given her 
only lately, for her album, — she hadn’t found time 
to paste them in. 

She had never quite realised how closely Rodney’s 
friendship was interwoven with her life. She had 
taken it almost as a matter of course, as she did the 


268 


Isabel Garleton’s Year 


affection of her own family. There had been times, 
like that day among the pine woods and arbutus 
blossoms, when she had become more conscious of 
its value to her, and of the meaning it might have 
as they grew older; but she had not understood its 
hold upon her heart. Perhaps she did not even 
understand it now; she only felt that this friendship 
was too precious to let go. It must not be wrenched 
away from her just when she had begun to compre- 
hend its beauty and its worth ! 

“ Oh, God, don’t let him die ! ” she prayed over 
and over for a long time. 

And then, feeling more at peace, she turned on 
her side and watched the sun sinking lower and 
lower, a red disc in a bank of thin purple clouds. 

Cousin Eunice came in with the wicker tray and 
a bowl of something steaming. “ We thought you 
might like to be alone,” she said quietly. “ Are you 
all right, Goldilocks?” 

“ Yes, indeed, Mona Lisa,” Isabel replied, giving 
Cousin Eunice the name that her love for Italy and 
her sad smile had won for her, “ I’m almost myself 
again.” Fanny came running in with a note and a 
bouquet from Monsieur D’Albert; and Rodney was 
not mentioned again that night. 

The next day, and several days thereafter, she sat 
by the window in the willow chair, weak and tired, 
but not ill. She said little, but her thoughts were 
always on the friend that had saved her life. “ Any 
news, mother?” she asked in the morning and at 
noon. Her heart had a frozen minute of fear, 


Surprises, Painful and Pleasant 269 

until her mother answered, “ Not very much. He 
keeps about the same.” Isabel could not bear to 
ask or hear anything more. 

If it had not been for this hovering horror, the 
days would have been pleasant enough. The fam- 
ily were in and out of the room, trying in every 
possible way to make her comfortable and happy. 
It was Cousin Eunice chiefly, who waited on her, — 
though Fanny ran up and down stairs till she felt, 
as she declared, exactly like a monkey on a stick. 
Mrs. Everard was always finding lovely and sur- 
prising things in her trunks, to show or lend to 
Isabel, — hand-embroidered chemises and night- 
gowns and negligees, lace handkerchiefs, silk stock- 
ings, sapphire and diamond rings, cameos, enamels, 
and lengths of lovely lace. And there were packs 
of postal cards from Europe and India and Egypt, 
and photographs that Cousin Henry had taken in 
his travels. And Cousin Eunice read to the dull- 
eyed convalescent, who hardly ever knew what the 
book was all about; and told her stories of foreign 
countries, till the fear that haunted her was, for a 
few moments at least, forgotten. 

Celia sat on a stool beside her, and told her fairy 
stories, and brought Bobo to snuggle in her lap and 
purr his consolations. But all the time, there was 
a heavy heart beneath the lace-trimmed negligees 
and the filmy chiffon scarves that Cousin Eunice had 
hoped would prove diverting. 

“ I wonder if Molly is getting her courage back 
any faster than I am,” Isabel sighed, as her mother 


270 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


was tucking her into the willow chair on the fourth 
morning. “ If my hands weren’t so heavy I’d write 
her a note.” She had not said much about Molly 
and Eric, because she had been told that they were 
safe, and her mind had been so full of Rodney. 

Her mother gave her a queer look, of mingled 
uncertainty and pain. She opened her lips to speak, 
then closed them again, and bent lower to put a 
stool under Isabel’s feet. Like a flash, Isabel under- 
stood. 

“Are they gone, mother?” she asked in a 
whisper. 

“ Yes, dear. Nobody will ever know just how it 
was. They were found — the next day.” 

“Oh, poor things! poor dear, dear Molly!” 
This new agony was too dreadful to be repressed. 
Isabel burst into tears and sobs that no caresses 
could quench. All the pent-up emotion of the last 
four days rushed to the surface, and whirled her 
away in uncontrollable vortexes of grief. Her 
hysterical crying brought father and Cousin Eunice, 
and eventually the doctor, and she was put to bed 
again for three more wretched days. 

In the midst of the shock and sorrow of Molly 
and Eric’s death was always the unspoken terror of 
something worse. She did not ask about Rodney 
now. If these two gentle and happy creatures 
could be taken away, one need not be surprised at 
whatever happened. She simply clenched her hands 
very hard, and tried to cry as softly as she could, be- 


Surprises , Painful and Pleasant 271 

cause mother and father were so distressed at her 
weeping. 

After a while she was able to sit up in bed again, 
and to make a show of interest in the flowers and 
notes and puddings and books and candy that well- 
meaning people sent. 

One afternoon Fanny came in with a cup of tea 
in one hand, and Bobo under the other arm. 

“Angel Child! ” said Isabel with a touch of her 
old self in her voice. 

Fanny set the cup down hard on the table, 
dropped the astonished Bobo with a thud on the 
floor, and burst into tears. 

Isabel thought the worst. “ It’s happened, and 
they don’t dare tell me,” came to her with paralys- 
ing force. She was so stricken that she was almost 
calm. “What is it, Fanny?” she asked, choking. 

“ N-nothing,” blubbered Fanny, putting her hands 
over her face to hide the tears; “nothing at all. 
It’s just the way you said ‘ Angel Child ’ — just like 
your real self. Oh, it’s been so awful — I can’t 
stand it ! ” 

“ There’s no bad news? ” gasped Isabel. 

“ No — no. It was just that ‘ Angel Child.’ ” 

Mopping her eyes, Fanny made a dash for Bobo, 
with such a sudden movement that the pampered cat, 
who had been standing sciff-legged in injured sur- 
prise, spat, bounced aside, and scrabbled out of the 
room with his tail as big as a scrubbing-brush. 

Isabel and Fanny were both laughing when Pro- 


272 


Isabel Carleton' s Year 


fessor Carleton came in, much relieved at the gaiety 
that greeted him. He insisted on holding the tea- 
cup for Isabel to drink out of, as he had done when 
she was a little girl. 

Just as the last drop had gone, and Isabel had 
wiped away what had dribbled down her chin, Mrs. 
Carleton came running up the stairs with her hat on. 
Her worn face was lighted with joy. She stood a 
moment in the door way, surveying the group, but 
not saying a word. 

“What is it, Mumsey?” questioned Isabel, and 
she was not afraid to ask, so certain was the happi- 
ness in her mother’s eyes. 

“ Rodney is out of danger! ” 

Each one of the four drew a long breath, and 
Mrs. Carleton sat down as if she were suddenly very 
tired. 

“Hooray!” shouted Fanny, waving her wet 
handkerchief. 

“Thank God!” said Professor Carleton fer- 
vently. 

Isabel did not say anything. Her heart was too 
full, and she felt too strange and weak. 

Somehow, in spite of the good news, Isabel did 
not get well so fast as everybody wanted and ex- 
pected. Perhaps one should not say “ get well,” 
for she was not really ill — at least, she did not 
have any disease. She merely did not get strong, 
nor lose the miserable sense of heaviness that op- 
pressed her. “ I feel as if I weighed tons,” she 


Surprises , Painful and Pleasant 273 

exclaimed in vexation when she tried to get out of 
bed. “ The life is all gone out of me. Do you 
suppose I’m always going to be like this? ” 

Cousin Eunice smiled, looking up from her cro- 
cheting. “Oh, no! You’ll get your nervous 
energy back before long,” she said. “ You’ve had 
a good deal of a shock, but young people recover 
pretty rapidly.” 

“ I wonder if I’ll be able to begin work at the 
University,” hesitated Isabel. “ I had planned so 
many lovely things, you know, Cousin Eunice!” 
Only that morning she had had a letter from Evelyn 
Taylor, who was visiting at a summer cottage in the 
remotest depths of Michigan forests, and knew 
nothing of the accident on the lake. The letter was 
full of delightful hints as to what would happen 
when college began. 

Cousin Eunice answered gravely, laying down her 
work, “ We have been talking it over, and we hardly 
think it will be wise for you to try to take up the 
college work this semester. Cousin Arthur thinks 
that it isn’t good policy to force the education of 
young girls, especially if they aren’t perfectly well 
and strong. Now, you may be entirely recovered 
in a few weeks, but we don’t want to take any 
chances.” 

Isabel had been sitting on the edge of the bed, but 
she sank back wretchedly among the pillows. “ Oh ! 
It doesn’t seem as if I could bear giving up my plans 
for college,” she wailed. “ All the year we’ve been 
talking about the things that would happen in the 


274 Isabel Carleton's Year 

fall — Evelyn Taylor, and Fred Delafield, and Rod- 
ney, and Molly — ” 

The thought of Molly brought a paroxysm of the 
tears that came so easily now-a-days. Mrs. Ever- 
ard sat down on the edge of the bed and put her arm 
around the girl’s shoulders with tender solicitude, 
but she did not say much, except a few broken words 
of affection. 

In the weeks that she had been with the Carletons, 
they had learned to love this beautiful dignified lady 
very much indeed. She had always lived in quiet 
luxury, yet she had always kept her hold on the true 
and simple things of life. Her thoughtfulness, her 
generosity, her unpretentious goodness seemed of 
infinitely more worth than all her elegance and cul- 
ture. “ I want to be like her! ” Isabel had told her 
mother privately; and Fanny was the lady’s dog and 
slave. 

After a while, Isabel, subsiding into dullness, 
wiped her face with the dampened towel that Mrs. 
Everard brought, and lay back listening absently to 
the reading of a funny story. But she laughed in 
the wrong places, and didn’t notice when Cousin 
Eunice had got to the end. She did not sleep much 
that night, but lay trying to master her disappoint- 
ment, and to plan her occupation for the long sem- 
ester when she should be out of school. “ I wonder 
what Rodney expects to do?” she thought. But it 
was scarcely to be hoped that he could take up his 
college work before Thanksgiving. Perhaps he 
would try to begin then, and make up what he had 


Surprises, Painful and Pleasant 275 

lost. It was not as if college were entirely new to 
him. 

The next day Isabel noticed a kind of suppressed 
excitement in the faces of the family. She had be- 
come very sensitive to what was going on around 
her. Father came in with his hair very much 
rumpled, as if he had been running his fingers 
through it. He kissed her absently, said, “ Well, 
well! ” walked about the room, looked out of the 
window, said, “ Well, well! ” again, and went away. 

Fanny ran down stairs to get the salt for Isabel’s 
soft-boiled egg, came back without it, tipped over a 
glass of water, and said, as she was sopping up the 
flood, “ Oh, isn’t it wonderful! ” 

“ Wonderful that you should tip over the 
water?” laughed Isabel impatiently, rescuing the 
toast from the tray. “ There’s nothing particularly 
astonishing about that.” 

“ I meant something else,” cried Fanny, going to 
hang the wet towel in the bath-room. 

Presently Olga came to take away the breakfast 
tray, and then Mrs. Carleton entered the room. 
She carried a vase of flowers, which she set down 
on the desk; then she put it on the table, then took 
it up nervously and put it back on the desk again. 
Sire scarcely seemed to know what she was doing. 

“ There’s a secret in the air,” said Isabel at last, 
watching her mother’s face. “ Now, Mummy-Carl, 
I know as well as anything that there’s a secret. It’s 
a nice one, too, and very exciting, but rather dread- 
ful. I insist on knowing what it is.” 


Isabel Carletons Year 


276 

“Yes, there is a secret,” Mrs. Carleton admitted 
with a kind of wistful happiness in her eyes. “ And 
it is a nice one, but rather dreadful, too.” She 
straightened the magazines on the table, and put up 
the window-shade, and then pulled it down again. 
She came over and patted the lace and ribbon 
boudoir-cap that Isabel was wearing. “ I think I’ll 
let Cousin Eunice tell you,” she said soberly, and 
went swiftly out of the room. 

Isabel was wondering what the news could be 
when Mrs. Everard came in, wearing her black silk 
gown, with the white organdie collar and cuffs. She 
stood at the foot of the bed, her face calm and beau- 
tiful, her dark “ seeing ” eyes, as Isabel called them, 
fixed on the questioning ones before her. 

“ My dear,” she said serenely, “ we have the most 
delightful plan for you.” 

“ Oh, what is it? ” Something of Isabel’s old en- 
thusiasm and eagerness had come back. 

“ You’re going to Europe with me for a year — 
to France, and then to England, and Holland, — 
well, I don’t know just where, but you’re going, any- 
way.” 

“Going abroad! England! Paris!” gasped 
Isabel. “Oh, Cousin Eunice, with you?” 

“ That’s just what you’re going to do,” replied 
Mrs. Everard, with a smile at Isabel’s agitation. 

For a moment the young semi-invalid lost her feel- 
ing of being made of lead, and sprang to a sitting 
posture, clasping her hands rapturously. “ Do you 


Surprises , Painful and Pleasant 277 

think I can f }) she cried, half-incredulous of her good 
fortune. 

“ There isn’t any reason in the world why you 
shouldn’t.” 

“ Except being a burden to you, and leaving father 
and mother — and the rest,” said Isabel in a faint 
voice. 

“ You’d be a joy to me. You know how lonely 
I am.” Mrs. Everard turned her face away to hide 
the trembling of her lips. She seldom spoke of her 
loneliness, but one saw it often in her eyes. 

“ It would be wonderful to be with you,” re- 
sponded Isabel softly. “ And if I could do anything 
to make you happier — ” 

“ You could — more than I can tell you.” 

“ But leaving the family won’t be easy.” 

“ You have to forfeit something for everything 
you get, dear. That’s my experience. Your 
father and mother want you to go. They think it 
would be the best thing in the world: a change of 
scene, and an opportunity to see some good art, and 
to learn some languages and a great many other 
things that would be of value to you.” 

u Including a course in manners and morals from 
one of the sweetest ladies living,” added Isabel with 
a whimsical smile. 

“ I didn’t hear them say that.” 

“ But I’m sure they thought it.” 

“Well, it’s settled, isn’t it? We’re going to 
Europe together ! ” 


278 Isabel Carletoris Year 

“ It doesn’t seem possible. I’ve always been mad 
to go, but I didn’t think it would ever happen — not 
for years, anyway. Oh, Cousin Eunice, I haven’t 
tried to thank you — -I couldn’t if I talked for a 
week.” 

“ You can thank me by giving me your compan- 
ionship while we are gone, and helping me to forget 
— what I have lost, and never had.” Mrs. Ever- 
ard smiled in a wistful way that was more sorrowful 
than tears. 

“ I’ll try to give you the best there is in me,” an- 
swered Isabel. 

“ Let’s call your mother,” said Mrs. Everard 
brightly. “ There’ll be dozens of things to talk 
over.” 

Mrs. Carleton was across the hall in her room, 
and came in looking very happy. She had, for the 
time, at least, conquered her sense of loss in Isabel’s 
departure. The rest of the morning was a lively 
feminine babble about clothes, and luggage, and 
steamships, and tickets, and cathedrals, and art gal- 
leries, and then more about clothes and luggage. 

In the afternoon Isabel felt so much better, 
although she stayed in bed, that Mrs. Mitchell and 
Billy Boy were permitted to come in for a short call; 
and Caroline Harper was in for fifteen minutes, too, 
for she was starting for Kentucky the next morning. 
They tried to talk about Caroline’s school, and her 
aunts, and her summer visits; but they could think 
of nothing but Molly and Eric, and at last fell into 
a dreadful silence, because neither of them could 


Surprises , Painful and Pleasant 279 

bear to speak. And then, to have something cheer- 
ful to say, Isabel told her news about going to 
Europe, feeling, somehow, no real triumph in Caro- 
line’s excited exclamations. She made Caroline 
promise not to tell, for she wanted to be talked about 
as little as possible; and, although she had not been 
told so, she knew from the notes from her school- 
mates, and other indications, that the accident on 
the lake had created a painful sensation in the city 
of Jefferson. 

The days that followed were busy but rather sad. 
Isabel was able now to be about for a few hours at 
a time; but she still felt languid and dull, and her 
nights were often sleepless and wretched. 

Her first real out-door trip was when she and her 
mother went in a hired cab to see Rodney. His 
mother let them in and led the way to her sitting- 
room up-stairs. 

Rodney was reclining on a chaise longue, with a 
blue-and-green checked shawl over his knees. 
There were red spots on his cheeks, and his eyes 
were very bright, but when he held out his hand, 
Isabel was startled to see how white and thin it was. 
She pressed it quickly and then dropped it, because 
it did not seem like Rodney’s. 

“ Long time since we saw each other,” he said 
briefly and rather awkwardly. 

“ Y-yes, it is,” said the girl, overwhelmed with 
the memory of that terrible day on which she had 
caught a last glimpse of Rodney, being carried, stiff 
and dripping, from the old University boat-house. 


280 


Isabel Carletoris Year 


It seemed a century since then, though it was some- 
what less than a month. Isabel was dumb and shak- 
ing with nervousness, and could only look piteously 
at the young man lying so weakly on the couch, al- 
most a caricature of the strong self-reliant Rodney 
of a few weeks before. 

She was grateful when her mother stepped for- 
ward and took his hand, saying, “ Rodney Fox, I’ll 
always love you for saving my girl’s life.” 

A wave of colour flooded Rodney’s face. “ I 
didn’t do much,” he said quietly. “ There really 
wasn’t much to do, Mrs. Carleton. All we could 
do was just to keep holding on until the launch could 
find us. Isabel was a brick. She didn’t scream and 
struggle — ” 

“ Oh, don’t talk about it,” begged the girl. “ I 
can’t bear it, and neither can you, Rodney.” 

“ I think it’s better to talk of something else,” 
agreed Mrs. Fox, a plump, young-looking woman, 
who was standing at the head of Rodney’s couch. 
“ Let’s pretend that nothing has happened. Just 
look at the things that Rod’s fraternity friends have 
sent him ! I’m getting such a houseful of stuff that 
I don’t know what to do with it.” 

On the table at the other side of the sitting-room 
was a miscellaneous heap of articles, — books, maga- 
zines, pipes, baskets of fruit, boxes of figs and nuts 
and dates, gay silk socks, and a dark blue brocaded 
lounging jacket. “ Rodney won’t have it on,” com- 
mented Mrs. Fox regretfully; “ he insists on wear- 
ing that old brown corduroy, and you can’t think 


Surprises , Painful and Pleasant 281 

how aristocratic and interesting he looks in this.” 
She looked over at him jestingly* for the dark blue 
jacket had been a subject of humourous contention. 
And then there were cushions with the University 
seal on them, and banners, and steins, a cigarette 
case — Rodney never smoked — leather slippers, 
and a dozen other things, big and small. 

“ I guess the fellows have gotten their dates 
mixed,” laughed Rodney, with a kind of apology in 
his tone. “ They seem to think it’s Christmas.” 

Isabel stared at the gifts without seeing them. 
She had somehow thought that there would be a 
dramatic quality about this visit to Rodney; and 
though she had been dreading it as well as looking 
forward to it, she felt vaguely disappointed. She 
scarcely said anything when the conversation 
changed, and they sat talking of the opening of col- 
lege, and the new professors who were coming, and 
of Monsieur D’Albert’s approaching wedding. 

“ His fiancee arrives next week,” said Mrs. Fox. 
“ Rodney had a note from one of the Rambeau boys. 
The wedding’s to be at the Rambeaus’, very in- 
formally, as soon as she arrives.” 

Isabel had heard this news at home, for Monsieur 
had invited her father and mother and Cousin 
Eunice to be present at the ceremony. Not very 
long ago, it would have seemed intensely exciting, 
but now she scarcely gave it any attention. She 
looked over at Rodney, who smiled at her with a 
grimace, as much as to say, “ Wasn’t I a goose to be 
so jealous of Monsieur D’Albert! ” 


282 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


“ We mustn’t stay long or we’ll tire your invalid,” 
said Mrs. Carleton to Mrs. Fox. And then, turning 
to Isabel, “ We must tell him the big news before 
we go.” 

Rodney looked up inquiringly. 

“ You tell, mother,” said Isabel. 

“ She’s going to Europe with Mrs. Everard.” 

A change passed over the face of the young man. 
[There was a silence before he spoke. “ Gee- 
whizz ! ” he said at last, with a long whistle. 
“ That is big news. Are you really going, Isabel? ” 

“Yes. Isn’t it too lovely!” Isabel answered, 
speaking very rapidly. “We’re going to ever so 
many marvellous places — England and Belgium 
and Paris, and goodness knows where. I’m sure I 
don’t deserve such luck, but Cousin Eunice says she 
really wants me. You know how crazy I’ve always 
been to go, and it seems like a fairy story come 
true.” 

“ It’s a little hard on the folks you leave behind 
you,” said Rodney slowly. 

“ Oh, it won’t be long.” Isabel kept her voice 
up bravely. “ A year is so short when you’re hav- 
ing a good time.” 

“ Yes, when you are,” assented Rodney heavily. 
He seemed all at once to look pale and tired. 

“ We must be going,” put in Mrs. Carleton, rising 
hastily. She turned to speak to Mrs. Fox. 

u I’ll see you before you go?” Rodney’s eyes 
were on Isabel’s face, and his voice was wistful. 

“ Oh, yes ! as much as you’re able — once, any- 


Surprises , Painful and Pleasant 283 

way.” She tried to be bright and cheerful, but felt 
that she was failing. A bit of the joy of going to 
Europe had departed. 

Isabel and her mother rode home almost in 
silence, but Mrs. Carleton held her daughter’s hand 
very close all the way. 

Back at home, Isabel gave way to one of her pain- 
fully frequent fits of weeping. “ Poor Molly! poor 
Molly! ” she kept saying. And she was thinking in 
her heart, “ Poor Molly! what a lot of happy sor- 
row, and sorrowful happiness she has missed! ” 


CHAPTER XXI 


LAST DAYS 


E chronicle of Isabel’s year is nearly finished. 



It would take too long to tell of the prep- 


arations for the trip, the gay and serious councils 
at home, the visits to shops and dressmakers, the 
calls, the telephone messages, and the running to 
and fro of those last days. Cousin Eunice always 
acted with despatch, and there was all too short a 
time between the decision and the departure. 

Isabel had a new fall suit of serviceable blue 
serge, bought ready-made, but very trim and stylish. 
The blue felt hat with the green parrot’s wing was 
very jaunty, throwing out the glint of her hair and 
the grey of her eyes. And then there were sundry 
blouses and shoes and gloves, and a pretty “ all 
around ” silk gown in dull green, with some of 
Cousin Eunice’s real lace in yoke and cuffs. These 
things seemed to come as the delightful things do in 
a fairy tale. 

“ You look like the ladies on Fifth Avenue,” said 
Fanny admiringly, standing off and gazing at her 
older sister, who was wearily surveying herself in the 
glass. 

“ I know I’ll love my pretty things later,” an- 
swered Isabel, “ but just now everything seems too 


Last Days 285 

much of an effort, even being excited over new 
clothes.” 

The mere thought of packing made her head hurt, 
but it was with something of eagerness that she 
watched her mother, marvelling at the skill with 
which blouses and underclothes and skirts were 
stowed away. 

On one of these busy days, Monsieur D’Albert 
was happily married; and Isabel kept some of the 
wedding cake under her pillow for a night or two. 
She was vexed and relieved, however, to find that 
she could not remember what she dreamed. 

Monsieur and Madame D’Albert came over to 
see her before she went. The bride was one of 
those “ pale dark fascinating French girls ” that 
Isabel had always pictured. She was charmingly 
shy, and very simple and genuine. 

“ I’m sure we should be very good friends if I 
were to stay,” said Isabel in her hesitating French. 

“ We’ll find a time for our friendship in another 
year,” the gentle little bride responded, patting the 
girl’s hand. “ Perhaps there will be many years 
for us.” 

“Sans doute! Another year — and many,” 
echoed Isabel, her soul leaping across the months in 
Europe, and returning home to Jefferson with im- 
petuous joy. 

In one of those last afternoons there was a talk 
with father, in his study, about pin-money and some 
other things. She must not be entirely dependent on 
Cousin Eunice, but must have the means of making 


286 


Isabel Carleton’s Year 


little gifts and charities, and of “ picking up ” a few 
pretty things that she felt she couldn’t live without. 
The small packet of express checques that father 
gave her seemed very generous, but he promised 
more before the year was over. And then he had 
a word about working, when she was strong enough, 
and learning something of art and history, and ac- 
quiring all the skill in languages that she could. 

“ Make the most of your opportunities, my dear,” 
he said, “ without being too severe with yourself. 
Culture somehow escapes us if we try too hard to 
grasp it.” 

“ It’s culture enough to be with Cousin Eunice, 
don’t you think, father? ” 

“ I can’t imagine anything better.” 

“ And oh ! talking of culture — you’ll send me a 
copy of your book as soon as it’s out, won’t you? 
I’ll be on pins till I get it.” 

“ You ’ll never read it, Plague-o’-my-Life,” said 
Professor Carleton, teasingly. “ What’s the use of 
sending it to you? ” 

“ I want it to look at, if nothing more. You will 
send me one, won’t you? ” 

“ Of course, Little One. Yours will be the very 
first copy that goes.” 

“ And you’ll write to me nearly every day, won’t 
you, popsey — and tell me every single thing? 
Having letters from you will be one of the beautiful 
things about going away. Can you find time to 
write to me? ” 

“ Yes, time for that, if nothing else. And we’ll 


Last Days 287 

be thinking about you every hour, no matter how 
busy we are, nor how far you are away! ” 

Isabel came and leaned over her father’s chair, 
and put her arm around his neck. “ Isn’t it won- 
derful to love people, father,” she said softly — 
“ to give them the best there is in you, and to know 
that they are loving you back as hard as they can? 
It’s the sweetest, finest thing in the world, isn’t it? ” 
“ Yes, dear, it is,” the professor answered, reach- 
ing up for his daughter’s hand. And for a long time 
they did not say anything, but each remained ab- 
sorbed in thoughts for which they did not have 
words. To one the past and the present were lovely 
and satisfying; and to the other the future was a 
thing of exquisite mysteries, hallowed and glorified 
by love. 

There was still a day left for the farewells to the 
family, when Isabel went with her mother to make 
a last call upon Rodney. She had seen him once 
or twice for a moment, but there had not been much 
time or strength for meeting. Now she had come 
to say good-bye for that short year that she was to 
spend abroad. 

He was up and about the room, still in the old 
brown corduroy jacket. The red spots in his cheeks 
had given way to a more natural glow, and his eyes 
had lost their feverish gleam. He had been nerv- 
ously turning over a book of Rackham drawings 
while he waited for his guests. When the bell rang, 
he said hurriedly to his mother, “ Leave me alone 
with Isabel for a minute, won’t you, mater? One 


288 


Isabel Garletoris Year 


can’t say good-bye with people standing around.” 

Mrs. Fox nodded understanding^, as she ran 
down to welcome the callers, whom the servant was 
letting in. 

Isabel was conscious of looking very well in her 
new blue suit, and her cheeks had regained some- 
thing of their normal colour in her walk through 
the stiff autumn breeze. 

“ You don’t look as if you needed a trip for your 
health,” said Rodney smilingly, as he shook hands. 

“ Neither do you, now,” answered Isabel, 
“ though you certainly did that first day that mother 
and I called.” 

“ I’m as strong as a coal-heaver,” Rodney replied, 
throwing back his shoulders, “ and mother says I 
eat like two hired men in haying-time.” He glanced 
over at the placid lady on the sofa, who beamed at 
him as doting mothers do. 

u We shan’t set you to heaving coal just yet, in 
spite of that appetite of yours,” she said genially. 

“ Shall you try to go back to college this semes- 
ter?” asked Mrs. Carleton. 

“ Yes, indeed. I’m going to have a tutor or two 
as soon as mother gets over worrying about me, 
and it won’t take long to make up what I lose during 
the first few weeks of school. I shan’t be very lone- 
some, for the fellows are beginning to come back. 
I had a letter from Fred yesterday,” — he turned 
to speak to Isabel — “ and he’ll be here to-morrow. 
He said he and Evelyn would be down at the train 
to see you off.” 


Last Days 289 

“ That’ll be splendid,” responded Isabel. “ I had 
a letter from Evelyn. She had just heard — ” It 
was hard to mention the terrible thing that had hap- 
pened. And it would be a year now before she and 
Rodney could talk it over. 

Rodney’s face was grave. “ Fred said to tell 
you that there was no use in his trying to say what he 
felt.” 

“ I hope he won’t try,” said Isabel in a low voice. 
Mrs. Fox and Mrs. Carleton were talking about the 
wonderful successes of old Doctor Sheldon, who had 
attended Rodney in his illness. 

“ He won’t,” said Rodney to Isabel. “ We men 
don’t find it easy to say what we think.” 

“ Sometimes we women can understand without 
being told,” replied Isabel soberly. 

Just then Mrs. Fox turned to speak to Isabel 
about Cousin Eunice, and to ask what boat they 
were sailing on. And the conversation became gen- 
eral, continuing so for the remaining half-hour of 
the call. 

When Mrs. Carleton spoke of going, Mrs. Fox 
said easily, rising from the sofa, “ You must see the 
new chintz curtains I’ve been putting up in my room. 
They’re rather unusual, and a trifle daring; but I 
couldn’t resist the chintz when I was shopping in 
Chicago this summer.” 

The two women went out to look at the curtains. 
Rodney and Isabel rose mechanically and stood look- 
ing at each other. There seemed so much to say, 


290 Isabel Carletons Year 

and so little time to say it in. Besides, they were 
unskilled in making farewells. 

“ So it’s good-bye,” stammered Rodney, looking 
down into the grey eyes raised to his. 

“ It will have to be — for a while,” said Isabel. 
She was fumbling shyly at the buttons on her coat. 

“ You’ll see so many things, and meet so many 
people, and have so many interesting experiences — 
perhaps you’ll forget us away back here in Jeffer- 
son. 

Isabel’s face softened, and her eyes were wist- 
ful. “As if I could, Rod! ” Her heart was beat- 
ing very fast. “ Nothing can make any difference.” 

Rodney held out his hands, still thin and white, 
but firm and manly now, and Isabel gave him hers. 
“You won’t forget me?” he asked, very quietly 
and tenderly. 

“No, no, Rodney. How could I, after — after 
what we’ve suffered together ! ” 

“ But it’s not all suffering. Isn’t there happiness 
in it, too? ” 

“ Yes, so much, Rodney.” Isabel’s voice was full 
and joyous. 

“ For me, too — so much ! Don’t, don’t forget.” 

“ No — never.” 

He stooped and kissed her very softly on the 
cheek. 

The voices of the two women could be heard 
in the hall saying, “Then you really like them?” 
and, “ Yes, I think the effect is excellent.” Rodney 
and Isabel stepped back. When her mother entered, 


Last Days 291 

Isabel was turning over the leaves of the Rackham 
book, and her eyes did not meet Rodney’s. 

“ Have you seen this book, mother? ” said Isabel 
in a tone so natural that it surprised herself. “ It’s 
awfully interesting.” 

“ I wish we had time to look at it,” said Mrs. 
Carleton, “ but we really must go. Good-bye, Rod- 
ney. I hope we’ll see you often, when you’re out 
again.” 

“ You surely will, Mrs. Carleton,” answered Rod- 
ney heartily. Isabel was saying good-bye to Mrs. 
Fox. 

Rodney and Isabel shook hands in an easy friendly 
fashion. “ Good-bye,” said the young man cheer- 
fully. “ Best wishes. I’m sorry I can’t see you 
off, but mater won’t allow it. You’ll write, won’t 
you, once in a dog’s age? There’ll be a steamer 
letter for you at the boat.” 

“ Oh, yes ! I’ll write, when I haven’t anything 
better to do,” smiled the girl. “ Jefferson will still 
be on the map ! ” 

“ Hope it’ll stay there. Well, good-bye again.” 

u Good-bye ! ” 

Isabel went downstairs and out into the bright fall 
sunshine with a feeling that was more elation than 
sadness. In her heart there was a strange, wonder- 
ful, exalting remembrance. It would stay hidden, 
growing dearer all the year — and there would be 
something beautiful to look forward to when she 
came back. 

THE END 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



T HE following pages contain advertisements of books 
by the same author or on kindred subjects. 





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Modern Short-Stories 

EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND WITH 
BIOGRAPHIES AND BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

By MARGARET ASHMUN, M.A. 

Formerly Instructor in English in the University of Wisconsin 
Cloth , i2mo , XXX + 437 pp m , $1.25 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 

NTRODUCTION 

I. The short-story as a subject of study. 

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The Cask of Amontillado Edgar Allan Poe. 

The Return of a Private By Hamlin Garland. 

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A Living Relic By Ivan Turgenev. 

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